


and the gods wept

by lemonadeandrice



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Blood and Violence, Brock Rumlow is a dick, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Maybe it's you, More tags to come later, People are gonna get hurt, Slow Burn, Smut, but i want to make it clear, it's mostly just me, look i'm not good at tagging things, so much fucking angst, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-01-23 06:43:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonadeandrice/pseuds/lemonadeandrice
Summary: What creates a hero? What is the soul of a god? And would you throw away immortality to be with the one you love? A loose retelling of Hancock, Steve is the hero New York City needs, even if he does not want to be. There has to be something more to it all, right? But his past is clouded and lost, dreams of a time gone by the only thing that proves there was more. So when he saves Natasha, she promises to help him uncover his truth. It isn't until he meets her boyfriend James, that things start falling into place.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. prologue

three a.m. there is

moonlight in your eyes a

galaxy tangled between your

teeth, I can taste the cosmos.

and the gods wept that they

had kept us apart for so long.

_orbiting_ \- a.j.

prologue

Something about the air, the way it shimmered and glistened along the rose-colored glass of his mind's eye, read familiarity. The world pulsating blue and black and grey and then in a brilliance of scorching yellow and the warmth of blood, still yet again. Warmth of blood and another skin and -

This was a time before time, before people had names for things or places or events and he was young. Exhilaratingly young, devilish, foolhardy. They exalted him, gave him offerings; their food and stock, their blood and bodies, and he received them, for he did not understand the concept of names or time or even loneliness. He did not understand their petty squabbles or even the eternal sleep they took because it was new, young. He had never experienced that, nor would he perhaps. But he knew of companionship, or so he believed, knew there was something out there dragging him closer and closer and -

Come home, for it was a concept that did not really exist yet, but he could understand the radiating warmth of another, the way they, those who gave him offerings, would come together and laugh and hold one another, bear fruit and sleep eternal. And he was alone through generation and generation of them and then, like holy gift, there was another. Another was with him, though not with him, he could see the shape of the memory hidden there behind the clouds of his sleep, and there was a pull like the pull of the sun below the horizon, and they worshipped them both holy. Long before rules were chiseled in stone, they were gods.

A voice reached out to him, he knew it, loved it, worshipped it holy because it was his eternal, but when he turned to laugh with it, see its owner and come together, primal, hungry, loving, all that remained was the whisper of a memory. A face swam at him through time and space but he could not reach it, picture it fully, not yet because -

Why?

But this other was there with him and they were one in every sense of this new word, words that did not yet have meaning or shape or -

Maelstrom incarnate broke along the coast, and those who had once worshipped him and his eternal as gods fled. But he did not flee, for he could not be harmed. They stood hand in hand, waiting for the storm to pass and then...pain became new in his mind, fresh and full and blood. His blood? How was it possible? Screaming winds ripped through their humble home and they were torn from one another and he knew he could escape if he wanted, but he couldn't get his feet to lift off the ground like before and neither could the other, the faceless, formless other. Trapped like small animals and his hands ripped and tore as he dug through rubble of his home and saw the faces of those he had come to know from their worship, their exaltation, and then there was his other, eyes closed to him. Had the eternal sleep taken them?

No.

The voice spoke, low in the aftermath, thunder still cracking in the distance, perhaps we can not be trusted with one another and he pleaded, no please, don't go, and the other said, "For now." And so they parted as equals, and loss finally had a name in his mind, shape, reason.

Come home, come home, coming home.

From where?

From what?

The dream shifted and the air smelled of salt and smog and people moved about, shouting, trading, the names of spices in multiple tongues coming to take his ears and he moved among them, no longer exalted as god but as one of them, because that was easier. And every smell and sound and taste was new in the sense that they were once unnamed and now had whole purpose, value.

Someone was there, with him, and across millennia and oceans and mountains that someone had come home, home to him. But who? He saw them, and it was everything. _They _were everything.

He had the feeling of home, of safety and love, something stolen, time perhaps. He knew this couldn't last, they both knew. But they were safe here now. A small cozy table spread out in front of him, safe and home but then...That voice spoke to him softly among wool blankets and they smelled of gunpowder, those familiar hands, and that was what home was for now. There was still no face with the voice, lone lips outlined in the dark, a smile and that was all. For surely this time was stolen, stolen indeed, they'd been seen in the village, and something would come for them this night. But why? Had they not always been this way? Had it been too long, the outline lips asked. He did not know. He did not understand. The dream began to crumble, sift away like rocks in a landslide and he was overrun by an incredible terror and life ending something.

He threw up his hand to cover his eyes from that bright something in front of him, its heat rolling in burrowing waves at him and he was knocked back off his feet and when he looked it was blurry, technicolor like he lived inside a kaleidoscope, all twisting and turning and jagged edges. Dark shapes swam in front of this blazing thing and the sound of glass shattering rocketed across this space at him, into him. He realized with some sharp suffocating horror that he knew this place. Knew it as home, _home, _and someone was holding him back, firm hand on his shoulder but when he looked up to this person there was no one there. Dust in the whirlwind of the painful heat from their home. Yelling emanated from the trees behind him, the vast and swallowing thing, the voices like hard stone and he was running, sprinting, lungs in chest and burning and -

Sky washed a grey like the birth of a storm, the death of a siren, and the ground split beneath him, opened like a maw ready to swallow and take and chew and eat. And he was high above it, over and to the next, running, pumping, blood and legs and breath and pain.

Pain? What of it? What was it? A memory of it in the times before tried to swim to the surface, fell flat again.

Another split in the earth, voice hoarse against throat and bruises like fingerprints on wrist and collarbone and shoulder. Across jaw, another bruise and blood - his own? He did not know. The other is there, voice in ears, can't hear, can't see, where, who?

_Wake up._

And the roar of a far-off scream, risen high in a wail from above and he should go to it, get away from here, escape before it's too late, but no, why run, we are safe and safe and -

Thrown backwards, hands grasping and miss, near miss, pain, burning ripping pain in chest and arms in legs in lungs, and then back up, vision clearing, there, eyes like slate and reaching. Another burst of fire and light and shrapnel, ripping through everything and wake up and it's started to rain and he is calling, calling out into the nothing for wake up wake and he can't see them anymore, can't see the face that he has known for millennia, millennia and then he's up again searching and his eyes see nothing. Just mud and rain and blood and he is wake up running and running and screaming, looking for anyone praying that he doesn't see the rose-colored face of wake up and he's stuck and then he's screaming over cold skin, it's not right, it's not right, it's not wake up and he can't, he can't he can't and then -

Something new, new sheen of memory, and he is in a bus, headed off to the great unknown, miles and miles away. Moving across countryside, can't recognize anything, eyes unfocused, heart pounding in chest, nervous, nervous...missing someone, someone, who? Blurred faces surround him, no one he knows or cares about, his person his other far away, across an ocean, time to grow, time to heal, then together again. Things are different now, have to hide, not like before, not like -

Running, screaming, arms pumping, it's all procedure, they are completely safe here, but is the other? His other, are they?

Of course because they are -

Come home.

Pencil scrawled on damp paper, drawing the line of those eyes so familiar it's the only thing keeping him sane, the memory of those eyes, how they glinted at him in sunshine, candlelight, in their primal need, panting, gasping, moving together, against and with one another in their home, was it home? Come home, no, not anymore, not since -

Come home, come home, come -

They are soldiers, rooted in the need to fight and protect one another, stop those who would do them harm, them and others, and he knows his other is safe across an ocean, safe near an island they had once been on before...before...

Another party is joining his, straggling, broken strangers are coming to rest their heads in their field and - a recognizable face in the crowd, his name called and his response and wait, it's _them _and wait, what? What are you doing here! Change of plans! Go home! Can't, can't leave and elation and fear, pure fear, here in this place where he knows blood has and will be spilled and they shouldn't be here and he says they have to go and their response, not without you! and lay in fields and rest and love and wait and for -

The memory, familiar and gold dusting and far-off shifts, spins dark and swallowing and things begin to blur together, where are -

A fine layer of ash settled over unmoving arms, legs, faces, distant cold eyes, helmets that could not withstand the blast of their weapons. There is the hollow sound of shells emptying the ground beneath him and he has to wake up can't, friends he had come to know, swore to protect unmoving in that eternal sleep he had come to know long ago, come to fear, eternal sleep and they called it death, too soon, these were children, whose blood was strewn about and for what?

The other is there, helmet falling askew and down over one cool slate eye, shouting to him, voice lost to a rumbling building beneath him, losing footing up and then another and - they have fallen, unmoving in the mud and he goes to them, falls to his knees and feels pain, not his, how, he hasn't been touched? He rolls them over, _wake up_ mud and blood like a beacon across their face, those eyes he had come to know come to love, his eternal, staring off past him, through him and tears sting his own eyes, explosions and screaming and the hail of weaponry around them. He shakes them, wake up, _wake up_, and their eyes meet again, thankfully, they aren't gone, _wake up,_ and he says please don't leave me, please I can't do this without you, _wake up_, and they look lost into his eyes, he swears he hears, I'm sorry, _wake up_, and they go limp, gone, gone _gone gone gone gone _and he is suddenly wrenched back, wrenched away, screaming and fighting but it's too late another is taking him back to safety, _wake up_ and there is a ringing in his ears so loud and blinding that he can't _wake up_ hear and _wake up_ and he is screaming and -

He is alone. His whole body is shaking and he is flooded with white hot fear. His hands grip the gears, and he tries to swallow. Someone is speaking to him, their voice far-off and crackling. They are soft, gentle, but there is pain behind their words, which are lost to the dream, like the whisper of the wind. He tries to calm himself, but the constant air rushing around him drowns the sound of his own breathing.

He has to put it down. Put it down, or something terrible will happen. He won't walk away, his heart of hearts knows. He was with them for too long. He can be hurt again. But if they aren't here...he doesn't want to be either.

The ground is moving closer and closer, the voice on the other end fading fast. They are trying to reassure him that he will be okay, but he knows he won't, they both do. He knows he won't walk away from this, and he doesn't want to.

_Wake up._

Closer and closer.

_Wake up_.

It's almost upon him.

_Wake up. _

He closes his eyes. Closer and closer and he pictures those cool eyes of home one last time _wake up_ and he says a silent prayer for them, for himself, _wake up wake up wake up _but he can't wake up he won't wake up from this it's over it's done, the ground is coming up on him and the voice is saying his name over and over again and all he can feel is the rapid hummingbird machine gun of his own heartbeat in his ribs and maybe now he'll understand the eternal sleep that he has seen generations of people take and he just wants to wake up _wake up wake up wake up wake -_

And he is awake. The sun is shining. He is awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone in the StuckyBangs discord/community for making this so easy and fun, and thank you to DumpsterDiving101 for creating all of the wonderful art you have so far for this story. I cannot wait to continue working with you dear!!


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight was threatening to climb over the windowsill and drench the entirety of the room with its morning devotional, for now content only washing over Steve's face. He could feel it there from behind his eyelids, brightening the room without forcing him to fully rouse. It was one of the few perks of living so low behind the skyscrapers - his sunrise didn't occur until three hours after actual sunrise. But there was no fighting it - he should get up.

The remnants of the dream were fading rapidly from the corners of his conscious and he desperately wanted to keep it. Just to see if he could recognize any of the details before they were completely lost to the consumption of awake. It wasn't as though this were a new, happy dream. He had dreams like this all the time, ones in which he found himself lost on what felt like a battlefield, or among the ruins of a city, drenched in sweat and blood - other peoples', of course. In one such dream he'd found himself being stitched up, curved needles working tirelessly to penetrate his skin, a detail he found laughable. But this one felt different. Hurried, ragged, like he had been there only yesterday. Like the waning moon of a memory. He was trying to hold that image of the slate eyes; eyes he swore he had seen before. Trying to keep that detail so that he could ponder it for a while longer and maybe...

Ridiculous. He sighed, let his eyes flutter open. It was always in the morning that he regretted not closing the measly excuse for curtains the night before, but the moon was something of a comfort to him. He couldn't place why. He rolled his eyes, letting himself stretch.

The apartment was quiet for the most part, the ceiling fan letting off a rickety dangerous sound as it spun but giving off some cool air. A quaint one bedroom was filled with an assortment of odds and ends he'd picked up over the years, it kept him sheltered from the weather and that was all he could ask for. He could see the tired green 1970s refrigerator through the hole where a bedroom door should be, his small efficient kitchen sink. There was the bathroom, rusty, minimal out of necessity rather than principle, the clawfoot tub a memory of the fresh building this had probably been well before he moved in. On the other side of the wall where he lay his head was a small sitting area most would have all-too-graciously referred to as a living room, but he just used it to read and draw. He felt he was a man of few interests.

His mussed sheets had at some time been white but had faded with so many washes that they seemed more like comfort than any real color, tangled around his legs as he moved to sit up, rub his eyes and yawn.

He finally placed what it was that had actually woken him up, gentle knocking at the front door that could - with some stretch of the imagination - have been interpreted as gunfire. Maybe that's why he'd been having the dream. It hadn't died down yet and in fact only seemed to be growing more impatient as he wasted time. But if it was who he thought it was, they were not going away any time soon. He sighed again, the images of the familiar eyes and bloodied hands careening off the edge of his memory, and officially out of sight, out of mind. He got up, every sound he'd been blocking out through sleep trying to worm its way in while he was still too tired to defend against it, knockings and sirens and a baby or six crying in the building, making his head ache, sort of, and shuffled barefooted out of the room and toward the front door.

He carefully unlocked it, eyes at a squint, and twisted the knob, pulling it open - and ripping the brand-new chain from its home on the doorjamb.

Peter stood there, phone up and facing him, staring at the chain dangling from the door, his mouth open slightly. Steve watched it too. Another $3.76 he was going to waste on this goddamn chain. He watched it swing to a stop and then turned to Peter, blinking expectantly.

Peter Parker was a perfectly nice kid, maybe 16, living with his aunt down the hall. The two had moved from Queens six months ago and it didn't take long for Peter to figure out that Steve was, well, different. Now he spent what felt like every waking moment informing Steve of things he deemed worthy of his particular brand of, well, valor.

"Hello Mr. Steve, I'm sorry if I woke you up, you, is that a new chain?" Peter said in his rapid-fire way that was endearing, regardless of how tough it could be to follow.

"It was," Steve replied, stifling a yawn. "What do you need, kid?"

Peter slapped himself on the forehead and laughed. "Right, duh, sorry, so I was online, just reading the news and stuff when this breaking update popped up on my feed and I thought that you might be the perfect person to -"

"Peter, please," he tried not to sound exasperated, but his still waking mind made it difficult. Peter didn't seem upset.

"Right, sorry, there's a bank robbery in progress." He turned the phone face out again and let Steve see the big block letters that read: _LIVE FROM DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN FIRST STATE BANK ROBBED HOSTAGES TAKEN._

He put his free hand on the phone and Peter instinctively let him take it, read it. Steve absentmindedly hoped that Peter didn't just actively hand his things to people. Seemed like a good way to lose them.

A bank robbery, this early? Didn't criminals sleep in? He'd been trying to. He scanned the article, his eyes finally adjusting to being awake, his head clearing just enough to block out all the irrelevant sounds and focus on the ones he wanted.

Peter's breathing, a different far off siren, screaming brought about by fear. The article said there were maybe 15 hostages and police couldn't find a way in yet. It didn't say they couldn't find a way in _period_, just that they couldn't find a way in _yet_, that didn't mean he had to -

"You should totally go help them! Use your superpowers!" Peter exclaimed and Steve could hear his heartbeat go up a kick. He cleared his throat and handed the phone back.

"Not superpowers, kid. Have a good day." He went to close the door, shaking his head politely. Right as it went to click closed, Peter nudged the toe of his socked foot in, keeping it ajar.

He could break it, easily, a little push and _crack, _a few little broken bones, but at what cost. He pushed the thought away, made eye contact with Peter through the crack.

Peter sighed, raising his eyebrows, "Let's not lie to ourselves, Mr. Steve." His voice was playful and for a moment Steve felt laughter attempt to bubble up in his throat. He probably could have been like a little brother to him if the circumstances were at all different. He sighed, cocked his hip. "Can I at least shower first?"

Peter's eyebrows went even higher, if that was possible. "I mean, there are hostages, sir."

"Fine." Steve said and Peter withdrew from the door, letting him shut it completely. He huffed out a sigh, resting his head against the thin wood of the door. Peter had not walked away yet. He was probably waiting to see if Steve was actually going to go help. And well, if he didn't help?

He went quickly to his dresser, to the bottom drawer and pulled it open. Inside there were several pairs of gym shorts, but he didn't go for those, instead plunging his hand underneath to reach what he really needed.

The outfit was silly, he knew that, all reds and whites and blues. They were the colors he'd been wearing when he'd crashed into that burning apartment complex, saved nearly 300 people. That had been nearly thirty years ago and people still associated him with those colors, this specific pattern. People even started calling him Captain, like he was some sort of war hero, but he hated it. He didn't want to have to do this. It wasn't even like others asked him to do this. He just couldn't stand to see people in trouble.

He pulled the tight nylon and pleather shirt over his long, rigid torso, wondering if today was the day it would finally be too tight. It wasn't, of course, he never gained weight, just like he never got sick, never got drunk, never bled -

The pants were nylon and pleather too, like kinky cargo pants, that a concerned citizen had made him to match the shirt. When had that been? 2001? 1991? They all blurred together now, but it didn't matter. They too still fit like a glove and he pulled them on, feeling ridiculous. In the bathroom he gave himself a quick swish with mouthwash, ran a wet hand through his blond hair, avoided his own eye in the mirror.

When he finally stepped out on the small balcony outside his bedroom, six minutes had passed. A lifetime when lives were at stake.

He took in a deep breath of the cool morning air, looked around. New York was bustling around below him, people milling to and from, completely oblivious to the terrors that were taking place not six blocks away. He knew Peter would be standing on his own balcony soon enough, waiting to watch him "take flight". He told Steve once that he liked to post the videos of him being a "superhero" online, but promised he'd taken all necessary precautions to keep his identity a secret. Steve didn't get out much otherwise. And it wasn't even flight really - he could just jump really high and very far, if positioned correctly. He heard Peter's glass door slide open and he sighed. That was five for five on sighing but apparently it was going to be one of those days.

"Whenever you're ready, Captain." Peter said and he looked over. Peter had his phone out and pointed right at him.

"Not a Captain, kid," Steve said as he crouched and with one fluid motion, ejected himself off the balcony.

It was chilly this morning, the air sweet and clean as it whipped past him, probably fifty or even seventy-five feet above the city now, buildings drifting underneath him, their rooftops quiet and unassuming as their inhabitants took their time rousing or maybe had already been at work for some time, or perhaps stuck in traffic on the parkway. He didn't know; it didn't particularly concern him.

He landed on top of one building, looked down into the street below. Police cars were streaming past, east, towards First State and he watched their progress, the miniatures of normal everyday people turning to watch them go past.

Steve listened again, blocking out the extraneous sounds in a practice he had long-since perfected, closing his eyes to focus on the sounds he needed. He followed the sirens along, coming to culminate around three blocks from where he stood, breeze flipping his hair, the police and SWAT and news vans gathering around the blockade in front of First State Bank.

His eyes snapped open, and with a little crouch, he launched himself up and forward again, skipping right past the low-rise building on the corner across from the bank, preparing himself to land.

Unfortunately, the presence of this many police and the like had brought out the nosy neighbors, and he had nowhere to safely land - nowhere except of course, right in between the blockade and the bank. Well, he thought, might as well make it a show.

The sirens and people grew louder and larger as he came down through the air, at the last moment, he dropped his knee, punching a small crater around him as he landed. There was an audible gasp from the crowd and then as he stood, and they saw who he was, cheering. He closed his eyes, suddenly extremely embarrassed, but this is what the people wanted. Perhaps the police, not so much.

As he came towards them, he saw one or two of them, rookies no doubt, put their hands on their service weapons. The one in the front, an _actual _captain named Mark Dwyer, a man Steve had worked with multiple times. Well, worked with was subjective. Cleaned up after when shit hit the fan might be more accurate.

Dwyer sighed at him - maybe it was a morning for it - as he walked over and extended a hand to shake regardless. Steve took it, blinking into the sunlight reflecting off the buildings surrounding them. "Captain," he said.

"_Captain_," Dwyer replied, only a hint of disdain in his words. Steve cleared his throat.

"What are we looking at, sir?" He asked, looking up at the glass front of the bank. He could hear yelling inside, whimpering, a woman praying in Spanish. Worry swam in his chest.

"Five armed men, walked in about 8:30, shot the security guard, took 15 hostages. Three of them are kids."

Steve nodded. "Do we know who they are? What they want?"

"_You _do." Dwyer replied, giving him a look.

It took him a moment to understand and then realization struck. Of course.

It was Brock Rumlow.

Brock Rumlow was some low-on-the-totem-pole thug that worked for the Fisk family. He was violent, emotionless, volatile. He took pleasure in hurting others, liked explosives, firearms, and loved hating Steve. They had had a number of run-ins in the last fifteen years, since Brock was maybe 20 years old, and he had only become more hateful. Steve was the main hand in putting Brock in prison from 2008 to 2011 and from then on it was a constant fight. He was also pretty good at escaping, which is how he got out of prison in 2011 and had not returned since. He would not hesitate to kill children, either.

"Do you have a way in yet?" Steve asked.

Dwyer shook his head. "He shot two of my guys headed in through the south entrance."

Steve swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"They might pull through," Dwyer said, swallowing his mustache a little. "But now you're here, right? You _are_ bulletproof." He offered a small, indignant smile.

It was a joke, one that they still felt too awkward to officially laugh about. Back when Steve first moved to New York City and Dwyer was a rookie beat cop who ticketed speeders and arrested abusive spouses, the two had met during a jewelry store robbery. Well, the two had met when Steve chucked the unconscious idiot who had been robbing the place into the street and Dwyer, in his panic, shot at Steve twice. One bullet lodged in the wall behind his head and the other grazed pathetically across Steve's shoulder. It was then he learned that Steve was in fact an ally, despite all of the tension it put on the department as he moved up.

"I'll see what I can do." Steve said, nodding as he took a step back towards the entrance, the crying and yelling becoming more insistent in his ears.

"If you're not out in ten, we're sending in the big guns." Dwyer hollered at him and Steve took a deep breath. Big guns could mean trouble for the hostages inside.

Though the yelling got louder as he got closer to the doors, none of it was directed at him. They didn't even really notice him as he pushed open the dark glass doors and stood in the foyer of the bank.

It was a mess. Shattered marble and blood and plaster all over the ground - someone had put a few warning shots into the ceiling. The security guard lay sprawled out on the floor near the deposit slips. A pool of blood was rippling out around him, slowly creeping toward where Steve stood. He wasn't dead, thank god, but his heartbeat was fluttery and weak.

There were two men with heavy weapons circling the hostages like vultures, their backs to him. He could hear another one rifling through the tills and still two more in the back where the vault was. There were indeed fifteen hostages and it was then that Steve noticed with a burning horror that they had what looked like homemade bombs strapped to their chests. He could hear the internal machinery ticking away, above the rabbit heartbeats of the people wearing them. There were seven women, five men, at least four of them were employees based on the way they were dressed. Two of the kids had huddled up to a crying woman, the third was a literal infant, awake and crying in his mother's arms. She clutched him to her chest and then she saw Steve. A small smile broke on her makeup-ran face.

"Aye lady, eyes down, don't make me tell you again!" Said one of the guys, his voice sort of muffled from behind his mask. She complied, but the other hostages had seen him now, began whispering excitedly to one another.

"I think it's time to lay down your weapons and leave the situation, fellas," Steve said, hands up, startling the two, who turned, and without thinking, one of them opened fire on him.

It was a quick spray of bullets and Steve turned his face away instinctually, the hostages screaming. He felt the tiny punches of the bullets hit him, maybe six in all, tearing his outfit. Great. And he had just run out of blue thread, too.

Once the gunfire stopped, he turned to them, eyes narrowing. The third guy in the room popped up from behind the counter, hands covering his head, his mask pulled up on his forehead. His face ran white when he saw Steve standing there through the smoke.

"Ah, Jesus, it's that Spangly guy!" He ran from behind the counter towards the back, slipping on a few chunks of countertop as he went, regaining his footing, then disappearing towards the vault. Spangly guy? Come on, what a terrible name.

"Let these people go, and I won't have to hurt you," Steve said. "There's no reason this needs to escalate further." He took a small step forward and he could hear the panic rising in the masked men's chests.

"Jesus, what the fuck!"

"Language," Steve said, shaking his head.

"Don't come any closer!" The one who had shot him said. Steve blinked at him.

The other one scrambled over, clearly thrown off by this chain of events and snatched up one of the hostages by her red hair. He guessed one of the employees by her clean grey suit. She yelped and grabbed his hands, eyes closing to the pain. One of the heels of her stilettos had cracked off and she stood hobbled on that side. Her heart was going a million miles a minute. She didn't necessarily look frightened now, just...angry. Angry was better than afraid, but more dangerous. The man put his gun to her head.

Steve paused. He wouldn't put it past the guy to shoot her. But he knew if he had to he could save her.

She was looking at Steve with hard, pleading eyes.

"Alright, let's just, calm down -"

"Get back!" The one said. The one who shot him was just panting behind the other, staring with wide terrified eyes.

Steve swallowed. So this is what is was going to be. Save the girl first. But she had a bomb strapped to her chest too. He could move fast enough, get them all removed and throw them high above the city. But how were they set up? Was it a remote detonator? Were they booby trapped? Steve's blue eyes swept the others. They were all watching him expectantly, hopefully. He had to help them.

He let his hands fall to his sides. "What is it that you want?"

"Well, well, well, look who it is." He knew that voice.

Brock Rumlow was coming out from the vault, strapped to the teeth. His lackeys followed him, eyes wide and guns raised. Rumlow was smiling, as if he had completely expected this.

"If it isn't the Captain. Here to ruin my plans again?" He said.

"Let these people go, Rumlow. This isn't worth innocent blood spilled." He kept his voice steady. He wasn't in danger, but the hostages were.

Rumlow shrugged. "Who are you to say what this is or isn't worth? I just want my money."

"Let's get these people out of here and you and I can talk." Steve tried. Rumlow wagged a finger at him.

"No, no, no. I'll get what I came here for, leave, and then they are free to go." He reached inside his pocket and pulled out what looked like a tiny garage door remote. The detonator. "And not a minute before."

"You bastards, there are kids here!" The redhead shouted and the man holding her pushed the barrel of the gun harder into her temple. She whimpered and closed her eyes as if that would stop the shot. He didn't pull the trigger but Steve saw for a moment his finger tighten ever-so-slightly on it.

"Oh, we've got another hero! How nice!" Rumlow said, stepping over rubble and coming up behind his man. He put a heavy hand on the back of the woman's neck, pulled her roughly away. He put his cheek up against hers and looked at Steve.

"A friend of yours, Captain?" He gave a dirty grin. "Maybe you two can get matching outfits."

"Rumlow, let's think about this."

"No, you think about this!" He raised the detonator and put his thumb threateningly against the button. "I will blow this whole place sky-high and you'll be the only one to walk away. And you'll have to live with their blood on your hands."

Several of the hostages started crying. The woman with the baby clutched to her began saying the Lord's prayer fervently against her crying baby's ear.

Too much time had passed. Dwyer probably had snipers setting up as they spoke. Steve took a deep breath.

He had maybe ten seconds. Ten seconds to grab the detonator, rip all the bombs off the hostages, punch through the ceiling, and throw those suckers up into the atmosphere and hope they didn't go off before that. Ten seconds was a long time though. Enough time for Rumlow to detonate the bombs, killing every single person in the building, except him. Even if Rumlow didn't seem like the self-sacrificing type, there was no telling what he would do backed into a corner.

"You better start making some decisions, Captain! Or I'll kill them all!"

Steve locked eyes with the redhead. The anger seemed to have consumed her and now all that he could read on her face was a calm, contemplating air. She was planning something, her hands flat on her thighs. She looked at him, as if trying to tell him something. But what?

"You've got till three!" Rumlow shouted, spittle flying from between his teeth.

Steve carefully planted his back foot. He didn't know what she was going to do, but she was going to get herself killed. Not if he could help it.

"One!" Rumlow put his finger more dangerously on the button. He had to do this now. "Two!"

What happened then was practically slow motion. The redhead brought her arm up, throwing her elbow back into Rumlow's face. His nose exploded with blood and he staggered, the remote falling from his hands. She then slammed her broken heel down into the top of his foot and he screamed, faltering a bit more. Steve took the opportunity.

He pushed off with his planted foot, grabbing the woman and ripping the bomb from her chest, tossing her as carefully as he could back across the floor. In the next six seconds he tore the bombs from the rest of the hostages, the wind from his speed pushing his hair back and making his eyes water. He held them in his hand by the straps, hearing their squealing ticking loud in his ears. But the six seconds had been long enough for Rumlow to gain his bearings and he turned, picking up the remote. He looked right at Steve and with a malicious grin, pressed down on the button.

His eyes grew wide and he pushed up with every ounce of strength he had, plowing through the ceiling, feet of plaster and insulation until he was a hundred feet above the skyline, then he threw the bombs up as high as he could, watching as they exploded into fire and machinery, a force so strong that it knocked him backwards, back through the roof and into the floor of the bank onto his back. He could see the red and black smoke through his original exit as the debris came raining down. As he landed, the SWAT team smashed through the glass doors, shouting and pointing their guns. The two gunmen who had been in charge of the hostages went down on their knees, hands up in surrender, the third and fourth raising their guns to defend themselves. The armored men of the SWAT team shot them down before they could get their own off. Rumlow stood in the rubble and smoke, watching open-mouthed as his whole plan fell apart. They would take him.

Steve grabbed the redheaded woman, who was dazed and in shock, her eyes wild and huge, and carried her out into the square. Dwyer and a few other officers and a few EMTs ran up to help him.

"Christ, Captain, what the hell -"

"Help the others, there are kids in there, the security guard needs help, now!" Steve interrupted, setting the woman down on the ground. She was shaking. SWAT members were bringing out the gunmen as police swooped in to help the hostages.

"Ma'am, are you alright?" Steve said quietly, nearly drowned out by the sirens and people yelling. Her face was white and she was crying softly, tears cutting tracks on her soot and dust covered cheeks. She was staring past him, and it took him placing a gentle hand on her shoulder for her to look at him.

"Are you okay?" He asked, taking her trembling hands in his own.

She flinched, but then relaxed, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, I am. I'm -" She paused.

"You did an amazing thing in there," Steve said. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

Then she smiled, letting out a little laugh. "I've been taking Krav Maga." Her face brightened briefly and then she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. At first it was slightly uncomfortable, but then he settled into it, rubbing his hand on her upper back.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't mention it." He said, pulling back. She smiled at him again.

"You saved my life. You're a superhero." She said.

He smiled awkwardly. "Not a superhero, ma'am." He stepped away, back towards Dwyer who was panting. Behind him, he could see the remainder of the hostages coming out, the woman with the clutched baby running towards a man who stood with the onlookers, being embraced by him. He wondered if the redhead had someone coming for her. Surely she did.

"Captain," Dwyer said, his voice hoarse. "Thank you for uh, well, just thanks."

Steve shook his head. "It's nothing, just wanted to help."

"The press will want to talk to you." He replied, his tone less than excited. "Plus, we'll need to get your statement."

"can come down to the station now, or in the morning. But I won' talk to them." He said, gesturing towards the press clamoring to get over the police barrier.

"Sooner rather than later for us, then." Dwyer's mustache bristled. "We'll see you down there."

Steve nodded, shook the Captain's hand, and turned to go away. Unfortunately, with all of the people calling for him and trying to get his attention, slinking quietly away through the crowd would be next to impossible. He just wanted to go home and take a shower, put on some civilian clothes. Might as well go out the way he came in.

He turned to the crowd, their screaming cheers and calls for a question, the reverberating whine of the sirens, the echoing _boom _of the explosion and its subsequent falling debris became nearly overwhelming. He lifted a hand in a wave, and launched himself into the sky, disappearing from the noise below.

It was all over the news, even though he didn't talk to anyone, there was him, landing in the middle of the chaos like something out of a movie. He looked like an idiot. Though, he had to admit, the shot of him throwing the bombs in the air was pretty cool. He talked to the cops, gave them all the information they needed and wanted, answered their questions, went to Rumlow's preliminary hearing.

He was looking at attempted murder, at the very least, which was interesting, terrorism, and a bunch of other stuff involving his work with the mob. He'd be in prison for a long time. If he made it. It was always around now that some sort of prison break was made and at least in one instance, a bribery that launched an investigation into the mass corruption of the NYPD.

Other than that it was a pretty lowkey time. He slept, ate, drew in the sitting room, snuck out to late movies. Peter talked to him a few times, once right after everything happened, while he was doing laundry, in his fast excited voice. He asked if Steve was scared while he was there.

"Not for myself," he'd replied, and that had fascinated Peter for twenty minutes.

A few days passed, and he found himself lounging on the couch reading the newspaper. Progress was being made in Rumlow's case and that pleased him. No breakouts yet. Fingers crossed.

There was a knock at the door. Probably Peter again, or maybe even his adorable Aunt May. She came by occasionally to see if Peter was staying out of trouble. He was, as far as Steve could tell. He did have a small soft spot for the kid, even if he didn't always show it, so he liked to keep an eye on him if he saw him out and about.

He tossed the paper on the coffee table as another knock came across the wood of the door. "Coming!" He said as he made his way over, his feet making small slapping sounds as they hit the hardwood. He had finally replaced the chain again, so he took extra care to undo it before opening the door and to his surprise, there stood the redheaded woman.

She looked more casual now, her hair done in soft waves. She was wearing jeans and tennis shoes too. She looked different. In any other circumstance, he wouldn't have recognized her. But he had less than a week ago saved her from having a closed casket wake. She clasped her hands together and gave him a small smile.

"Hi!" She said.

He shook his head, a little thrown off at first. How did she find him? "Hello," he replied.

"I'm sorry to show up like this, I just, well," She cleared her throat. "I feel like I didn't get to properly thank you."

Steve blanched. Was she going to try to thank him with...? God no, that was an awful thing to assume. But here she was, randomly at his doorstep and _how did she find him? _

"I'm sorry, this is so weird, I shouldn't have showed up this way." She chuckled and ran a hand through her hair.

Steve blinked and cleared his throat. "No, you're fine, um, would you like to come in?"

She shook her head. "No, no, I can't stay, I just wanted to say thank you and," she paused, catching her breath. "I'm Natasha, by the way. Natasha Romanov."

"Nice to meet you Natasha, um," he leaned forward a little. "How, how did you find me?" He was worried someone had seen him. Or Peter had spilled his secret.

"Well, much like the weird stalker that I am, I googled you." She offered him an apologetic smile. "Whoever is posting those videos of you doesn't seem to think people know where he lives. But my cousin lives in the building right next door." She looked at the floor.

Steve looked down the hallway to see the crack of Peter and May's door slowly close completely, a quick rabbit heartbeat in a chest on the other side of it. He'd have to have a little chat with Peter about his "superhero" videos. "Well you're the only person who's ever showed up on my doorstep, so that's better than nothing."

"I'm really sorry, it's completely out of character for me. I just. Well, I wanted to invite you to dinner." Steve opened his mouth to object, but what could he object about? "Not tonight, but maybe Friday? My boyfriend wants to meet you, thank you for saving me."

Oh, a boyfriend, good. That eased his mind a little. Why not? What could he say no for? Sorry, I can't Friday, I'm very busy having shawarma takeout alone in my underwear and watching old MASH reruns? No, he couldn't refuse her. She was being polite. He should be polite too.

He sighed. "I'd love to. I can meet you there? Or..." He paused. Did he want to risk riding the bus or doing a "superhero landing" on her cul-de-sac?

"I could pick you up, if you want. I don't live in this area at all. Kind of a long -" she smirked. "- walk."

He smiled back. He was beginning to like her. She was kind of sassy. "Yeah, sure, that sounds great." His chest felt light. "I'd love to do dinner."

"Perfect!" She clapped her hands together and let out a sigh of relief. "I'll pick you up here, Friday, around 6? The boyfriend is making dinner."

"Great," he said. It'd be the first time he'd had a homecooked meal in...he couldn't remember how long. "I'm excited.: And he was.

"Awesome. Well, thank you, again. I'll see you Friday." She waved as she walked off and he closed the door after her.

As he lay in bed that night he thought to himself, watching the dusty blades of the ceiling fan spin lazily around, that maybe, just _maybe_, he had found himself a friend.

She picked him up in a little blue car that smelled like hibiscus, slightly overwhelming to his super nose, but he didn't complain. He was just glad she actually showed up. For some reason, he was nervous. Maybe it was because he'd forgotten how to socialize in all the time that he'd been alone, over nearly...eighty years? Seemed like longer, but yeah, it'd been eighty years, right? At least.

She talked to him about the weather, about the aftermath of the robbery, about what was for dinner. The boyfriend - who she only really referred to as "the boyfriend“ - seemed like a nice guy from what she was saying. They'd been together about three years, met at a ski resort in the Colorado mountains, been inseparable ever since. She said he made her feel safe and that he loved to cook, which was good because she didn't.

He told her about Peter and his drawings and the older British woman he helped out occasionally that lived downstairs, but tried to swing the conversation away from his supposed powers. He just didn't really feel like that should be the basis for their friendship. But the conversation flowed effortlessly, like they'd known each other for years. Like they _were_ old friends.

They drove for maybe thirty minutes until they came to a small neighborhood that did, in fact, have a cul-de-sac. Her house was cute, not too small but much bigger than his tiny one bedroom apartment. It looked like she enjoyed the relaxations of gardening, or at the very least paid someone to do it. He had to wonder what James did to make them afford such a comfortable neighborhood. One banker's salary was hardly enough in today's market. The house was painted white and the door was a gentle green. They walked up to the front door and she let him inside.

"I would say sorry about the mess, but I'm not my mother so I won't." She laughed and he did too. The foyer was small but inviting, all cream walls and a little bench next to the door. Natasha kicked her shoes off and shoved them not so politely under the bench with her foot, smiling at him. Down the hall he could see the start of a living room, a soft grey couch and the smell of dinner coming from the other side. Maybe the kitchen opened up into the living room.

They passed by a set of stairs that she said led up to the two bedrooms and the study, bathrooms, an attic. On the back wall was a set of sliding glass doors that opened onto a lush green backyard, a cobblestone patio, a little birdbath. It was cute. Cozy. Felt like home.

"So this is the house, I'll give you a better tour after dinner." She walked around the marble island which housed a sink and was cluttered with plates and knives and cutting boards. She went up to the man whose back was turned to them, smiled at him.

"And this is James," Natasha said, rubbing the man's broad shoulders as Steve sidled up to the island. She pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"James, this is Steve." James looked down at her, but he was facing away from Steve, so all he could see of him was his back and dark hair pulled up in a sort of half-bun. He was cutting up what smelled like orange bell peppers, their sweet scent wafting to him over the smell of sizzling chicken and cumin and curry and chili powder and there was something else there, something familiar like...a memory. And as James turned, tossing a slice of pepper in his smiling mouth, Steve caught hold of his eyes and the memory because it was standing right here in front of him. James looked up at him and he stuttered in place and _oh._ Cool slate eyes, strong jaw, a voice screaming, _"__No, not without you!"_ and Steve froze, a heart he didn't know could stop skipped in his chest, and it was him. _Him. _

James was the man from Steve's dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Kate (@DumpsterDiving101) as well as everyone in the StuckyBangs!! I plan on posting a chapter every two days, but we'll see what's going on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve talks about his past with Natasha and James.

Space stretched between them, malleable and soft as if warmed by two hands. Steve’s mouth ran dry like a riverbed and he heard the click in James’ throat as he swallowed, hard. Steve wondered how long they stood there, watching shadows pass over one another. Was it recognition? Why did he know this guy? James…the name felt…foreign to him. Was wrong the right word? He wracked his brain trying to place him from the last seventy years…maybe he had a family member Steve had known. No, there was no way. 

Natasha blinked at the two of them, patience turning into an uncomfortable fidgeting. “Everything okay?”

It was James that blinked first, as if shaking himself from a trance and he took a step forward and leaned over the center island, hand outstretched. “Sorry, yeah, I was just thrown off by the celebrity standing in my kitchen."

Steve took his hand – strong grip, Jesus – and shook. “I’m not,” He stuttered, suddenly nervous and embarrassed.

“You didn’t tell me the Captain was coming for dinner, Nat.” James said, flashing a brilliant smile. His eyes, this smoky cool blue, locked onto Steve and a shiver ran through him. 

Natasha shrugged. “I said the guy from the robbery, who did you think I meant?” She went to the cabinet and grabbed three wine glasses, holding them delicately between her fingers. “Steve, I’ve got red, white, zin, what’s your poison?”

It took him another moment to pull his gaze from James – he was so familiar and Steve couldn’t place it, god – and he cleared his throat. “Uh, actually, whichever. I uh, can pretty much drink anything.”

“Oh, that must be nice, I get tipsy after a glass and a half. Three glasses? Forget about it.” Natasha said, giggling. James nodded, smiling. 

Steve sat shakily on one of the bar stools set up on the opposite side of the island, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, yeah, it’s kind of cool I guess. I can’t get drunk, so.”

The spoon James had been using to move the peppers around made a loud clattering sound against the side of the pan and Steve looked up sharply. James and Natasha were looking at him incredulously. James’ brow was pulled down, and Steve could hear his heartbeat tick up a bit. Natasha’s mouth had fallen open slightly, but she looked a little…the best word Steve could use to describe it was intrigued.

“You can’t get drunk?” Natasha asked, her voice quiet. There was a small smile pulling up at the corner of her lips, mischievous and cute.

Steve shook his head, swallowing. He looked between the two of them. “Yeah, no I’ve never been able to get drunk. And I’ve tried, believe me.” He chuckled, a nervous sound. 

Natasha threw her hands up, fingers splayed. “Hold on! Hold on, wait! You can’t get drunk. That’s insane!” Her eyes grew wide for a second and she gasped. “And I watched you get shot! Like, a lot, what the fuck!” She came around the side of the counter and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling it down to see where one of the bullets had bounced off his shoulder. She was extremely close but he let her look. He looked over to James, who was leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He was mulling something over, but Steve couldn’t read it. 

Natasha let out a soft sound, her fingers running gently over the skin. There was nothing there to see. No blemishes, dents, scar tissue. Steve looked down at her, still a good six inches taller than her even sitting down. She looked so inquisitive and curious, like a child, her face soft and clear. Then she pulled back and her face twisted back up, like she was putting on a mask. Steve wondered why she did that. 

“The bullets didn’t touch him,” Natasha said, looking at James. He took a step forward and looked, so Steve pulled his shirt down just a little. 

James shrugged, gave a little smile. Steve blushed as James’ eyes ran over his collarbone and then up to his face again. “I mean, I didn’t see him get shot.”

Natasha flailed her hands again. “But I did! This is insane! Wait, okay, so you can’t get drunk, you don’t seem to get hurt.” Her eyes grew wide. “Are you an alien?”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “No, no, nothing like that.”

“Are you a superhero?” James asked, only a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Not a hero,” Steve replied, smiling at him, then looking away just as quickly. “Just a guy who can’t be killed.”

Natasha made an awestruck sound, leaning on the counter. “I’ve got to know everything.”

Steve swallowed. Did he want to tell them everything? What good could possibly come from it? What bad could come from it? They think he’s crazy or lying? Or worse, they believe him and are afraid of him? He loses these…friends? He could see them being friends. And you couldn’t become friends with someone if you didn’t open up to them. But what could he even say?

He sighed, looking at them again. “Okay, yeah. Sure.”

James waved with his spoon. “Alright, I’m open to hear what you have to say. But first – dinner!” 

Dinner was amazing. James was a chef in a little Romanian restaurant about fifteen minutes from the bank where Natasha worked – “When I found out what happened, I ran the thirty blocks to get to the bank.” – and loved to cook. He had thrown together a sauté with bell peppers, mushrooms, chicken and a green sauce that reminded Steve of Little Morocco, apparently a recipe he’d got from a friend of his named Sam, all thrown over saffron rice. It was one of the best meals Steve had had in a long time. He mostly just got takeout. 

Natasha did very well at not asking Steve about, well, everything, though she was jumpy and jittery, like it was all she could do to not ramble off a series of questions at him. James did well at distracting her too, getting her to talk about her family – “No siblings, divorced parents, you know how it goes.” – an art store in the city that Steve should check out, her Krav Maga class. 

Steve watched them interact with one another, the blasé way they moved together and spoke, poking and teasing, her smiling at him in such a way that all he could see was a pure, unadulterated love. She loved him. He wondered if she’d told him that. 

But there was something about him, about James, aside from the familiarity, that had Steve struck. He moved with a lumbering grace, like he was moving gently, afraid of his own strength. He was built in such a way that gave Steve butterflies and he caught himself blushing more than once, and had to turn away. 

He was…if Steve was being honest, a beautiful man. The eyes, the ones he had recognized immediately, seemed to cut into him like a knife, and he saw something hiding there behind those eyes, like there was something James wanted to say but couldn’t. He was strong, arms run with muscle like he probably worked out on a regular basis, ran or lifted weights. He was about the same height as Steve, and if it weren’t for the fact that Steve was well…Steve, he probably could have taken him in a fight. He looked rough, like he had been in a fight or two.

He was hot. _God_, Steve thought. _What kind of monster am I that I’m thinking about how hot my friend’s boyfriend is?_

He shook his head to clear the thought, but it didn’t matter. James looked at him again, and his whole body ran hot, his stomach fluttery and wild and he had to pull his eyes away, clear his throat. 

“I’m sorry about her Steve,” James said. “She’s fiery.”

“You love it,” Natasha replied, playfully shoving him on the arm. He rolled his eyes, but he had a small smile on his face.

Steve couldn’t help but smile too. They were happy. 

“Okay, okay, anyhow, I’ve been extremely patient, which is not in my repertoire, but I will wait no more!” Natasha said, leaning over the table a little so that she was half-standing, half-sitting. She had been rather conservative in her wine drinking, but he thought maybe she had exaggerated her lightweightedness. Like James, she looked like she was rough. Hadn’t she taken Rumlow down practically on her own?

Steve swallowed and rearranged himself in his chair, setting his hands folded on the tabletop. He realized that James was watching him, and he had to suppress another heavy bloom of blush. “Alright, alright. What do you want to know?” He kind of knew already what she was going to say.

She shrugged, blinking a few times. “Well, everything, obviously!” She put her hands under her chin and looked at him, eyes sparkling. “How old are you?”

Steve had to think about it. Just based on how he looked… “Maybe 27?”

James scoffed a little, swallowing hard. “_Maybe _27?” He asked.

“Well,” Steve started, looking anywhere but at James. “I don’t really have a birthday, and I’ve looked like this since the 40s.”

Natasha had been taking a drink of her wine and she snorted into it, coughing a little. James rubbed her back. “The _40s?_” She said, her voice raspy. 

Steve nodded.

“Holy shit,” James whispered, genuinely impressed.

“The _40s_,” Natasha said again, dabbing at her chin with a napkin. “Holy shit.” 

All Steve could do was nod again. He didn’t know how he expected this to go. 

“So, the 40s, what did you do in the 40s?” Natasha asked, napkin still poised in her hand.

He sat quietly for a moment. There were flashes of something, white hot and burning gold, on the precipice of his mind, something hidden that he could not reach, wasn’t sure if he wanted to. But he remembered an _after_.

“Well, it’s tough to explain.”

James leaned forward, his face solemn, and put a gentle hand on Steve’s. His skin was warm and it sent electricity through Steve’s whole body, making him shiver. His mouth went dry. “Take your time, just start with what you know.”

Steve looked at him and for a moment was lost in his eyes, all blue on blue, like crisp morning skies, and Steve could feel himself swimming in their cool waters, getting lost in them, and he had the overwhelming urge to intertwine his fingers with James’, squeeze them, maybe pull him in closer, like in a memory, and as quickly as the feeling had come, James had pulled away. And again he felt cold, lonely. 

“Okay, yeah,” He swallowed, leaned back in his chair. Only place to start was the beginning, right?

“So, the first thing I remember is snow, but everything around me was burning.”

It was the sound that woke him, a twisting metal sound that roared in his eardrums, and he carefully opened his eyes. He was on his back, looking up at a frozen grey sky, his mouth full of grit. 

He didn’t feel anything out of place, just felt confused, really. It took him another moment to sit up, take in his surroundings. His body felt heavy, like perhaps he had to settle back into the bones and skin. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and it came away black with soot. He snuffled, his nose filled with snow and dirt, sneezed, choked, then finally cleared his airway. 

Where was he? He didn’t know. Where there wasn’t the endless white expanse spreading out around the nest where his body was laid out, there was twisted silver and black of metal, and huge shooting flames. The heat felt nice on his skin, but something animal in him told him he had to move. He had to get out of there. So slowly, carefully, he pulled himself to his feet, began shuffling forward. But he didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know where he was or was supposed to be. 

He climbed gingerly over jagged pieces of metal, ripped away from some central point, most of everything on fire. The sun, a tiny pinpoint of light behind the clouds, offered little comfort or direction as it hid at the top of the sky, unseen. He shambled forward anyhow. 

As he got what he deemed far enough away, he turned to look at everything. It was a plane, or what was left of one, shattered and torn to shreds, thrown out across the snow and ice, flames licking up the remaining fuel, softening the metal of the wings, making it crumble into sharp pointed teeth. While he was sure he should be upset, or frightened, he wasn’t. He felt nothing. 

But he knew he had to get back. Get back to who or what, he had no idea. How had he got here in the first place? So, all he could do was turn away from the wreckage and begin to move.

The sun set, rose, set again, rose yet again, and he walked, unsure if he was making any real progress as the land shifted around him, wind whistling in his ears so loud it sounded like screaming, a bone biting cold trying to settle over him, but it couldn’t, it seemed, get past his skin. He had the small annoying feeling that perhaps he should eat, but whatever hunger was there rose and fell like the sun, barely acknowledged. He didn’t see anyone, anything, even though he could hear the howling of wolves over the crying of the wind, they never approached him. One animal to another, perhaps. 

Five days passed, walking through the cold expanding tundra, trees slowly beginning to dot the area as he went, when he finally heard something coming. At first it just sounded like the chopping wind, cutting through him as he moved, so he didn’t think anything of it. But then he saw it. 

High above the earth, it was a black dot at first, coming from the west. He stopped, watched it, his head cocked. As it got closer, he realized it was a plane. A small thing, it looked like it could barely stand up against the high winds, but it drew a straight line towards him, unmarred by the weather. As it passed by, he watched its progress, then suddenly it took a wide turn, coming back the way it had appeared from. It passed overhead again, and he could see it was a soft green, a white star surrounded with a circle on its side. He realized, with a sort of intrigued caution, that it was getting lower. It turned around again and he raised a hand to it, as if it could actually see him. But it did. 

On the third turn around, it got low enough to the ground that he could feel the wind of its passing and watched as it began to descend even further, like it might land. It had boat-like feet, and he could picture it sliding across the snow-covered ground as it did so. It took one more turn, and it was low enough to touch the earth, and it passed within a hundred yards of him, and his eyes could see that the person sitting in the cockpit was looking at him, his mouth dropped open.

When it came to a stop, he didn’t approach at first. Just looked at it as its spinning propellers slowed and two people hopped out. He didn’t realize initially that they had their weapons out, and it wasn’t until they started shouting at him, “Stop! Right now! Hands up!” that they were pointing the weapons at him. He realized he’d started moving towards them, two men, dressed in the same sort of soft green that the plane was colored, and came to a shuddering stop. 

He let them close the distance, weapons still pointing shakily at his torso and face, until they were within spitting distance of one another. He regarded them with the same sort of curious animosity he had hoped they would give him, this man with soot and smoke splashed across his skin, his clothes all but nearly burned off, untouched by the wind or cold, hands up in a surrender. They, in stark contrast, were dressed in heavy coats, thick gloves that in all honesty would make it difficult to pull a trigger, thick fur-lined hoods pulled up over their heads. They still looked cold.

One of the men, taller with a thin black mustache, lowered his gun just enough to look at him. “English?” He said, his voice a little gruff. “You speak English?”

He understood what that all meant, so he supposed he did. He nodded.

The other man, giving a quick frightened rabbit look to the first man, lowered his gun a little as well. “Who are you?” He said.

It took him a moment, the words caught in the back of his throat. But, he couldn’t give an answer. He wracked his brain, trying to find the answer to that question, name, what was his _name? _But it wasn’t there. Who was he?

“I don’t know.” He replied, his voice all husk and rasp, but not completely unlike their own in inflection and tone, and they jumped a little, giving one another confused looks. He could feel his own face twisting up in that same gesture – confusion. 

“Do you have any weapons?” The mustachioed man asked, and he shook his head in reply. Where could he hide a weapon in a ripped to hell outfit like this?

They dropped their weapons entirely, stowing them away in respective holsters and they began quickly towards them. It wasn’t a threatening movement, but he took a step or two back all the same, unsure of what they were doing. But they had huge smiles on their faces.

“Holy hell, you gave us a right scare. Captain Syd Shores, this is Second Lieutenant Al Milgrom of the 45th,” The man with the mustache said, gesturing towards the other, this Second Lieutenant Al Milgrom, who gave a nod. He nodded back at them, finally letting his hands rest at his sides.

“My god, what are you doing all the way out here in the wilderness? It’s freezing out here.” Milgrom said, regarding his clothes with uncertainty. 

Another moment to think. What was he doing out here? Had he been on that plane that crashed? Or was he just there when it went down. And where were they? His mind was swimming with smoke, something pressing to its edges, begging to be acknowledged, but he couldn’t take hold of it, whatever it was, and bring it to the surface.

“I don’t know.”

Milgrom and Shores looked at one another, more uncertainty. Then they were gesturing towards the plane. “Come with us. Let’s get you home soldier.”

The plane ride was long, and the sun had sunk down below the horizon before they finally landed, in a place called Camp Haan, in a state called California. 

According to Milgrom, Shores, and the pilot, whose name was just Bristol, no title or last name, it seemed, the great war had ended. They had, as it was so eloquently put by Bristol, ‘Bombed the shit out of the nips,’ a word he didn’t know but got the feeling was something he didn’t want to repeat, and ‘Pretty much destroyed all of the Kraut defenses.’ They all seemed pretty excited about it, and when they landed in Camp Haan, everyone was celebrating there too. 

The plane they had been flying had actually been off course when they picked him up, somewhere over Canada. They had come from a rendezvous in the Soviet Union – “A mistake, a goddamn mistake, I never want to get stuck in that wasteland again!” Bristol had said – after leaving the bombing of Japan. He didn’t know why, but the idea that they had dropped bombs so powerful that they killed thousands of people without even trying, made his stomach hurt. He didn’t know all of the details of this great war, but what was the line for humanity’s cruelty? How many people really had to die? He understood death, somehow. 

Camp Haan was alight with excitement, the celebration culminating into screaming, cheering, crying, singing, drinking. Men hugged one another, laughing and shouting. As the three men led him through the crowd, they were going to a medical tent they said, he couldn’t help but smile too. There were men singing some sort of war tune, others dictating letters or telegrams to family and friends, even more still packing up their belongings. Several of them were bandaged up, like they had put aside their pain and recovery just long enough to admire the fact that they were alive, and it was all over, god bless us, it’s all over.

The medical tent was no exception, even if it was a little reserved. Bristol had seen some friends of his and had deviated from the group, but Shores and Milgrom had taken him all the way to ensure he didn’t get lost.

It smelled like alcohol, not the kind the men outside were imbibing, but strong, sharper. It stung his nose and he coughed a little. Men lay spread out on cots, all in various stages of healing. But he could smell something else there, underneath all the cleaning solutions, bandages, and blood. 

It was death. Death lingered here. He looked around and caught the eye of one of the men laying in a cot not far into the tent. Or moreover, he looked at the man, and the man looked through him, at nothing at all. He was gone. He was going cold, his body already beginning to smell of rot and decay and he had to tear his eyes away, swallowing sadness. 

A nurse came down the path cut in the middle of the cots to them, her face torn into a smile. “Syd!” She dropped her clipboard, ran up and threw her arms around him. He picked her up a little and spun her, the two of them laughing like schoolchildren. Milgrom came up behind them, clapping Shores on the back while he stood a few feet away awkwardly. This wasn’t his to interrupt. 

The nurse saw Milgrom and gave him a hug too, her face flushed pink and out of breath. “My god, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!” She put a hand on each of their cheeks and took them in, assessing whether or not they were hurt. 

“You know we wouldn’t leave you here in this place, Doris. Never in a million years.” Milgrom said, his voice soft. 

“And Bristol? Goodman?” She continued, clasping her hands in front of her. 

Milgrom and Shores looked at one another, then at the ground. Doris put her hands up to her mouth, gasping softly.

“Bristol is with us, outside somewhere. But Martin didn’t get off the island.” Shores said, his voice heavy with the weight of his words.

Doris shook her head. “No,” Was all she said. He could see tears in her eyes. Milgrom was nodding. 

There was a moment of quiet which spread out along the floors of the tent, swallowed whole the moans of some of the men laying there, became drowned by the reverie outside. That was when Doris looked at him, as if finally realizing he was there and she let her hands fall to her throat.

“Who’s this?” She said, gesturing to him.

Milgrom and Shores turned and looked at him, as if also just recalling he had been tagging along. “Well this, Doris, is uh –” Shores paused, then chuckled. “He doesn’t know who he is.”

Doris took a small step back. “Is he?”

“I’m English,” He said, moving forward. He heard her heartbeat increase with fear and realized she might think him an enemy of some sort. “Or, American. I – Al and Syd found me in Canada, brought me here. I’d been walking for nearly five days.” 

Doris squinted at him. “Walking? In Canada?”

He shrugged. 

“And you don’t know who you are?”

He shrugged again. 

Doris sighed and put her hands on her hips, studying him. Milgrom had given him a coat and a pair of old pants he’d found in the supplies on the plane, making him look less disheveled but not any more put together. He knew he was still covered in ash and he could smell himself. He wasn’t sure if she could smell the gasoline and smoke and just general unwashed, but he could and that was more than enough.

“Wondered if you might be able to give him a rundown, see if you can figure out what’s causing the amnesia.” Milgrom said. 

Another moment of Doris regarding him. Then, with a sigh, she nodded. “Okay. But I’ve got a lot of work to do, and there’s a party to be had, one that I’d like to join, mind you. And if you two are pulling some sort of prank! –”

“It isn’t a prank, Doris, I swear on my mother’s name!” Milgrom said, hands up in defense. 

Syd just laughed, pulling Doris into a hug once more and giving her a quick peck on the cheek, which made her blush uncontrollably. “Thanks, Dor. We’ll see you later tonight, huh?”

She nodded, but wasn’t looking at them. She was reaching out for him, her small hand palm up. He took it and she began to lead him down the pathway, towards a second part of the tent. 

“You treat her real nice, mister! We know where to find you if you’re not!” Syd hollered and Doris shook her head.

“Like you could win in a hand-to-hand, anyway, Syd!” And then they disappeared through a makeshift door.

Her name was Doris Ruth Pierson. She was 22, was born in Missouri. She had soft brown hair that was pulled up on top of her head and soft brown eyes. She had gone to school briefly to be a nurse when the war started and had been shipped out to California not long after. It was with a gentle smile in her voice that she talked about how she’d met Syd and Al, when she’d gone to see a movie in town and Syd – drunk as a dog, she said – had tripped on the sidewalk while walking with his buddies, Al, Bristol, and a man named Martin Goodman, who had been shot and killed while trying to sneak off Iwo Jima before they dropped the bombs. Martin had a wife and a little girl back in Chicago. 

Doris had offered to fix Syd up and it didn’t take long before the two realized they might have feelings for one another. But it wasn’t easy being in love in times of war. Before the 45th was shipped off to Japan, to sit about 100 miles off the coast and watch the mushroom cloud swell up over the mainland, Syd said he’d marry her if he made it back. And so now he had, and he owed her a ring.

She had him strip and wash up, giving him a fresh pair of army fatigues to wear while they did the examination. She had politely stood outside while he did so and for that he was grateful. After he felt settled again, posted up on a little examination table, she came in, offering him a shy smile and taking up the pile of clothes he had left on the floor.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d –”

“No, it’s okay, I’m just going to see if they can be salvaged for you to wear home.” Home. He had no idea where that could be. 

She turned to leave again when a little tinkling sound rang out in the space and they both looked down. Something deformed and silver had fallen out of one of the pockets of his pants and hit the ground. It looked like…a dog tag.

Doris leaned down and picked it up, examining it. Her brow was furrowed as she did so. “Is this yours?” She asked.

He shrugged. 

She turned it over in her hands, rubbing away dirt that smudged the face. It was indeed a dog tag, but whatever had happened around that plane had melted it practically into an unrecognizable heap. “Steven?”

He squinted. “Steven?”

She nodded, looked up at him. “It’s pretty badly melted, so you can’t read the outfit or last name completely, but it says Steven.”

She handed it to him and he took it carefully. On one side it did indeed say, in nice plate lettering, ‘STEVEN’ with what looked like the beginning of an ‘R’ or a ‘P’ or ‘B’. The rest was gone but he could read that. _Steve_.

He tried to hand it back to her. She shook her head. “It’s yours.” Then she smiled at him. “You kind of look like a Steve. Not a Steven, really.” And then she left the room again. 

He took a moment to try and rub the face of the dog tag, for some reason sure that the name would disappear and he’d be a nameless lost boy once again. But it didn’t. It screamed at him _Steve, Steve, Steve,_ like a beacon and he was overwhelmed with a powerful sense of, “Oh, yes, it’s me. I’m here.” 

His name was Steve. _His name was Steve_.

Doris couldn’t actually perform as many tests as she wanted to. She looked in his ears, found nothing wrong with them, flashed a tiny light into his eyes, recorded the reaction time of his pupils dilating and the like, but when she went to listen to his heartbeat, could not hear it. Couldn’t find a pulse at his wrists or in the place where his jaw cut a line from his throat. But he could feel it beating in his chest. He knew it was there, strong and unhindered. He thought, in a funny way, that maybe his skin was too thick to let the sound out. And then, when she tried to draw blood – “Knowing your blood type might help us narrow down who you are,” – the needle had snapped off without breaking skin. The thin needle piece rolled off his skin onto the floor and clattered there. The two of them looked at the crook of his arm where she’d attempted to draw the blood and there wasn’t even a mark. Doris gasped, and her own heartbeat jumped again. She was frightened and stumbled backwards like she might try to run.

“No, please, wait!” Steve – it would take him a while to get used to the name – said, fearing that she maybe thought he was some sort of monster, a creature who could not be harmed, but nonetheless was dangerous. He didn’t want her to be frightened. She had given him a name, he didn’t want her to take that away again.

“What are you?” She said, breathless.

He shook his head, taking her trembling hands carefully in his own. She pulled slightly on them but did not completely separate herself from him. Her skin was warm and soft. “I don’t know.” He said. “I woke up five days ago in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by what looked like a plane crash. I have no idea who I am or how I even got there and I –” He paused, watching her eyes. There was fear yes, but underneath it, a living breathing curiosity. He hoped to use that to his advantage.

“I just want to know who I am.” He said quietly. 

The two of them stood there for a minute, the sounds of war-ending life outside still raging, watching one another. He let her hands go, took a step back. Waited.

She finally, sweet relief finally, sighed and straightened up. “Well, if I can’t draw your blood, we’ll just have to figure something else out.” 

He sat back on the examination table, watching her thin fingers as she scribbled something down on a chart, smiling.

Two hours later they left the tent, and Steve was grateful to be away from the overwhelming smell of the dead. Someone had come by while they were inside the exam room and taken away the dead boy. His bed was empty when they left, the sheets stripped and gone. 

Outside, night had officially fallen, but there were lights everywhere. Bonfires, the flickering of lighters and burning cigarettes and cigars, lanterns, and someone had found old Christmas lights, their soft yellow glow giving off little light but a warm feeling of home anyhow. It didn’t take long for him and Doris to find Milgrom and Shores, back together with Bristol, enjoying what looked and smelled like potatoes and pork chops. The three boys were crowded around a rickety wooden table with several other men and a few women, all singing and eating and drinking. When Doris came up to the table, Syd jumped up, stumbling a little, and offered her his seat. She took it gratefully and they all looked at Steve.

“So, any ideas on why he can’t remember anything?” Milgrom asked, pointing at Steve with a half-eaten roll. The two of them shook their head.

“I guess only time will give him his memories back,” Doris replied. She smiled. “But we did figure one thing out.” 

The table turned and looked at him, stood at the end with his hands at his sides, heart racing. 

“Oh, yeah?” Bristol said. “And what’s that?”

Steve swallowed, suddenly very nervous. But they were all looking at him expectantly, like he was the one who was about to announce that the war was over. 

He smiled. “My name is Steve.”

It took them a moment, and then the table erupted with laughs and hoots and hollers, all various inclinations of ‘Steve!’ Milgrom and Syd came over to him, wrapped him up in a hug, Bristol put his hand out to shake. People were clapping him on the back and one woman even stretched onto her tippy-toes to kiss his cheek. A drink was shoved in his hand and Syd turned to the crowd, putting his hand up for silence. 

“Well, Steve,” He raised his own glass, giving him a brilliant smile. “Welcome home.”

“After that, everyone went home, and I pretty much just traveled for the next few decades. I went overseas for a while, lived in Germany, Italy, Egypt for a while. Came back to the States in the late 80s. Lived in Florida and Louisiana, finally moved back to New York in the 90s. And that’s where I’ve been ever since.” Steve finished, clearing his throat. 

Natasha and James had settled into their seats, staring at him open mouthed and wide eyed. “And you never got your memory back?” Nat asked, blinking at him.

He shook his head. “Sometimes I’ll have these dreams and they feel like, like they’re nearly memories. But nothing ever comes of them. Once the internet came around, I tried to look stuff up and see if there were any soldiers missing in action who might be me. But nothing ever came of that either.” He shrugged. “I’ve always kind of felt –”

“Like a man out of time.” James said.

Steve and Natasha both looked at him. It was as if he’d been reading his mind, his face set and stoic. “Right. Lost.”

James nodded.

Natasha sat back in her seat. She’d almost finished the bottle of wine she’d been pouring for herself and her cheeks were pink. “That’s just insane. I can’t even imagine what it’d be like to go so long to not know who you are.”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, it’s been a learning process. I didn’t even know I could draw until the 70s. I was in France for a week and saw some art students and thought, ‘Man I’d like to do that.’ So I started and found out I was actually good.” He smiled shyly. 

“That’s just…” Natasha started again, then swallowed the word. 

They sat in silence for another minute, staring at their plates, the leftover sauce, not a whole lot, had become cold and congealed. Then Natasha stood up abruptly, flattening her shirt over her stomach. Steve and James watched her, unsure of what she was doing. 

“I know you said you couldn’t find anything when you went online, but I have skills that you might not. And I have an idea. Hang on.” Then she turned and went out of the kitchen, Steve listening to her progress as she went up the stairs and disappeared into one of the rooms up there.

He turned to James and was a little startled to find that he had been looking at him first. His smoke eyes had a ponderous quality to them, like he was searching Steve’s face for something. It made him nervous. 

“What?” He said, found the words nearly caught in the back of his throat.

James blinked and smiled, a little coyly. “Sorry, there’s just something about you.”

“Something weird, I’m sure.” 

“No, no, nothing like that,” James said, rearranging himself in his seat. “You just seem…genuine. It kills me that you’ve gone nearly eighty years with no idea of who you are. Seems like a lonely life.”

Steve swallowed. “It has been. Coming to New York made it a little better though. Lots of people.”  
“Yeah, you’ll never find a shortage of those here.” James chuckled. He had leaned forward a little so that Steve could practically smell his skin, a warm scent like summer sun so intoxicating it was making him dizzy. He couldn’t help but lean forward too, like something was dragging him closer. 

“What about you? Are you from here originally?” Steve asked. He was getting too comfortable and kind of felt himself…admiring James. _Stop it, Steve, don’t be an idiot._

He kind of wanted to kiss him. _Jesus Christ, why?_

“That’s kind of a long story, but in short, no, I’m not. I’m –” James looked up and there was the sound of a door slamming closed and Natasha started back downstairs again. Her heartbeat was elevated and she turned the corner, nearly slipping in her socks on the hardwood floor and then she was shuffling down the hall again. Steve sat back in his seat, trying to relax a little. 

“So, I used to know this girl from ballet who was the daughter of a diplomat and she taught me how to use a few proxies to find backdoors into discreet servers. One time we may or may not have accidentally hacked into the CIA. Thankfully we were like fifteen and her dad made it all go away. Anyway, I was just remembering that I’m friends with her on Facebook and messaged her to see if we could meet for coffee and rehash some things.”

Steve and James blinked at her. “Okay,” Steve said. “For what?”

“Because we’re going to figure out who you really are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this chapter, AO3 was down for me and I've decided to change my own self-implemented schedule to do whatever I want as I see fit so anyway!! Thanks again to Kate @DumpsterDiving101 for creating my art yet again, you are a treasure!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are lurking in the corner of Steve's mind, begging to be recognized, and his emotions get the best of him with James.

A low mist ran along the ground, crawling like so many fingers through the trees and the dirt-covered streets, and he walked, steady and slow, next to some invisible someone. He didn’t dare look just yet, afraid of what he might or might not see, sure it would only be outline lips and stark eyes staring back at him in the darkness. He knew this was a dream, by the way it shimmered and shone, the smell of memory distant in his nose. And dreams were hard to escape. 

It was easier to just continue to look forward at the cart and mule beaten path. But after what seemed like eternity, he could stand the wait no longer. He looked up, and with long lost relief, saw it was him, all smoke-eyed and wild hair. His whole someone. The one that looked like James… But of course it wasn’t. That was ridiculous.

They smiled coyly at one another, their secrets hidden in the roots of their skin, in the beating heart of their affections.

Night had fallen, the only lights coming from inside the small wooden homes, a fire burning in the middle of the square. They were going to see someone, two someones, someones they thought – no, knew – were like them.

_ Even inside now, cozy against the early March cold, the mist remained. It made the room hazy, the people across from them at the table hazy. He blinked, trying to clear his mind, try to take hold of what was being shown to him. He knew this place, these people. They – he and his other – had been moving across the country, trying to stay in the safest places possible, because they were surely vulnerable again, were they not? They had been together too long now, knew the consequences of everything, of life. Soon, they would have to separate again, throw themselves to the corners of the world, until they were sure it was safe to come home, come home, yet again.  _

_ The town they had come across was quaint, tired, puritan. On the first night of them being there, they had stowed away in an abandoned house not far from the edge of the woods, unsure if it would be safe here, clear to rest. They’d laid side by side on the dirt floor of the house, vine and crocus coming up through the floor, trees reaching their branches down through a hole in the roof. They had laid, hearts beating quicksilver next to one another, close enough to touch but not quite there. He had reached out, hands shaking, to take up the hand of his other, this James look alike, squeeze it gently. They could rest, however briefly. Another shift, and it was the next day. _

_ As if by some animal calling, they had met them. Two women, one blonde and a cream-skinned, the other her no other word but eternal, raven-eyed and gorgeous. They had nearly run into one another, perusing through the town to meet whomever they could, to see if they should instead just continue to hide in their woodland reprieve. Or if they might be safe here for a time.  _

_ They regarded one another, two and two, and it was as if the air thickened when they were near each other, because they created between the four of them whole worlds and galaxies and they were one and the same. And they knew it as well. The blonde one called herself something with a hard ‘k’ sound, his mind said Kismet, but that was wrong, and the other Maria, the name rolling off her tongue like molasses, but they were all but dragged away in the song of the wind. _

_ But things were moving, in the dream and the town, and they felt tension as they walked through the streets, staring and whispering, and he asked, sat around the hazy table why that was. _

_ Her voice like a song, pushing through to him, and he remembered every word she spoke as if they were across from one another now, but they weren’t. This was only a dream. Right? _

_ “We’re afraid they’ve seen us together.” The one with the ‘k’ name said, her voice low and wispy. Worry tainted her voice and he looked over to where Maria stood by the stove. She was watching the wringing motion of her hands, her face sad and solemn. Even in the remnants of the dream he could see her eyes so clearly, all honey and new earth. They were frightened as well. The two of them were frightened.  _

_ His other reached for him and he turned up, eyes looking, grasping for anything that may solidify him further. It was as if he was slipping away, and he could not keep him there. The haze of sleep was pulling them apart again. He could feel his name on the tip of his tongue, he knew him, he  _ knew _him, but could not bring it to fruition, could not truly materialize the truth of his name. His face was James, but that wasn’t right. It wasn’t James. Besides, the dream was moving on. _

_ “We’ve only been here two moons, after being apart so long. But when we first came back together, we still had all the pieces of the before, from when we were young.” Maria said, coming up to the table. She rested her hand on the blonde’s shoulder and she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes to their comfort. They were so alike the four of them; it was all love and love and love.  _

_ “And they saw you?” The man with James’ face said, his voice all husk and all he could feel was the enveloping love and love and love, and it frightened him. The thought that maybe the people of the town knew what they could do. Knew what they were.  _

_ These people were not like the people of old, the ones who worshipped and exalted them. They had new rules, a new god to worship. And to them, people like him and his other and these two were a threat. _

_ They nodded. “It’s not fair how we have to live now. Pretending she is below me when she is my equal. Aren’t we two halves of the same?” The blonde said, giving a small smile to her other. Maria returned it, brushed back her hair, and wrapped her arm around her shoulder.  _

_ “You’re welcome to stay here, but we should all move on soon. This place isn’t safe for people like us.”  _

_ He felt himself blink, shake his head. “You mean there are more out there like us?” They were the only others he had met, besides his other of course. And the way they created something whole and huge between them, he would have noticed if they had met others. _

_ The blonde blinked and her name rang clearer and clearer, it was, yes, Carol, Carol,  _ Carol_, gave a small laugh. “Of course. You didn’t think you were the only ones, did you?”_

_ _

_ A fortnight passed, the scenery swirling into new form, the cold endings of March turning to a wet and dangerous April. Something was happening in town, the whispers more intense now, rumors of some creatures in the neighboring towns reaching their tiny hamlet. But he and his other had been together too long now, they no longer possessed the animalistic hearing or strength. They couldn’t hear all the talk. They were becoming like these frightened rabbit people. Human. _

_ They were walking through the street, all mud and rain, the sky heavy and dark, pregnant with threatening clouds, keeping their heads down. They didn’t talk much, didn’t touch like they wanted to, had not taken one another wild and ravenous since they got here. It was too dangerous to try. What if they were caught? _

_ A door swung open, hard and fast, from one of the houses, slamming so hard into the wall that it didn’t bounce back, just slammed and stuck in the wall. The two of them stopped dead in their tracks. And then Carol was being thrown in the street, sliding across the mud, crying out.  _

_ His other took a quick step forward but Carol put a hand up, as if she sensed them, knew what he was thinking and they stopped, and he could feel his heart racing in his chest. A man walked out of the house, face hard and angry, and the look could only be one thing. Hate. _

_ Another came out behind him and he had ahold of Maria, his hands digging into her arm and she was sobbing, her shirt torn down off her shoulder. Oh god, what was going on here? _

_ Carol propped herself on her hands and knees, tried to use her momentum to push back, try to get to Maria, and all the while the two of them, he and his other, stood stupid and afraid, unsure of what to do. The first man took Carol rough by the shoulders, threw her back down and she hit the ground so hard that he himself could  _ feel_ the sound she made in his bones. _

_ He could not stand by any longer. “What is the meaning of this?” He said. It wasn’t his place. He didn’t know this man and the man didn’t know him. He was putting himself at risk. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t sit by and watch this happen.  _

_ The man turned aggressively towards him, eyes mad and burning. He had hair cropped close to the base of his skull and even without his all-seeing eyes, he could see the pulse racing in his temple. “This is no concern of yours.” _

_ “These are our friends,” His other had come up beside him, tried to go to Carol, help her up. The man took her by the arm and shoved her down onto her knees again, pushed his other away. He stumbled a bit but kept his footing even in the sludge of mud that was running through the street. They looked at one another. Terror was streaked across their faces, reflective of one another. _

_ Maria was being held behind her, crying outright now, also on her knees, reaching out for Carol, and Carol looked over her shoulder at her, her face dragged with very real fear. _

_ “These two,” The man said, his green eyes sharp and deadly. “Have been found accused of witchcraft and fornication. And under the eyes of god they will be tried for their crimes and if found guilty, they will be punished.” _

_ His heart could not be contained any more, it was running in his chest, too fast, too quick, threatening to explode and kill everyone in the vicinity. People were coming out of their houses or staring through their windows, intrigued and desperate to hear and see what was going on. _

_ “You can’t do this!” His other said.  _

_ The man holding Maria had begun to drag her away, his hands under her arms and she struggled against him, screaming out, “Carol! Carol!” _

_ Carol threw herself back, not onto her feet but her stomach, writhing through the mud as if she may be able to gain traction, get to Maria, but they all knew, the four of them there in the square and the nosy smug bastards in their houses, knew that it would be fruitless. He felt himself panting now, and the green-eyed man grabbed her by her hair, yanked her up onto her knees, then her feet again, and he and his nameless other took a short stuttering step forward. The green-eyed man put a hand up and Carol somehow jerked away, ran up to him, took him by the shoulders, leaned into his ear. She was smattered with mud and tears, smearing it on him, and he wanted to take hold of her and run far, far away, anything to save her, save them. _

_ “Don’t say anything, protect yourselves. We shall be together again, pray for us –” She was pulled back again suddenly, her cries more frantic. “Pray for us, for god’s sakes, save yo—"  _

_ That was when the man hit her, hard on top of the head and she went down, unconscious. A trickle of blood ran down her forehead. She could bleed. _

They_ could bleed. _

_ _

_ He blinked himself awake, realizing the dream had moved again. Dream? No – nightmare. It had become a nightmare.  _

_ The rain had been unrelenting since Carol and Maria had been taken. He had tried to go see them but was denied visitation. He and his other had also not been permitted to go to the trial, offer their testimony. Something terrible was going on behind the closed doors of this town, and they could not be privy to it. _

_ They sat in Carol and Maria’s home, which had been destroyed in the quest for some sort of evidence of their indiscretions, but it didn’t really matter. The green-eyed man, who was called Jon Roberts, had everything he needed to make his case.  _

_ They had reset the table, its two little chairs. The third and fourth had been smashed and were unusable. The door hung jagged on one of its hinges, wind whistling in through its opening, one of the windows was shattered. The blankets had been torn off the bed and thrown on the floor, the mattress and pillows cut up and their innards strewn about the house. All of the dishes and pots and pans had been smashed on the hardwood as well, their pieces sharp and savage. It looked like a storm had rushed through, leaving nothing untouched in its wake. _

_ They didn’t speak to one another. They didn’t know what to say. They could only sit silently with one another, a million thoughts and what ifs running through their minds, all unspoken. If Carol and Maria’s lives were at stake, so too could theirs be.  _

_ It was the other that spoke first, his voice soft. “We could break in and take them out of there. We can’t let this terrible thing happen to them.” _

_ He had to clear his throat, stifle away tears that threatened behind his eyes. “We don’t have the strength or speed anymore. If we were caught…” He trailed off.  _

_ Carol and Maria were their sisters, it was true, for they were alike. But… “I can’t lose you, too.” He said, and his other looked at his hands ashamed. He felt it too. What kind of person was he – if that’s what he was – if he would not help another who was in danger? The other was right, this person who he had known for millennia, grown with, loved and fought beside, this creature who was and would be his eternal? They couldn’t let something happen to the others.  _

_ He reached out and took the other’s hand, causing him to look up, nearly startled. “Tonight, we’ll try tonight. And then we’re getting out of here.” _

_ He gave him a smile, so elated, and a bell sounded from far off. The two turned to the door, jerking their hands apart, to the outside where the sound came from, confusion driving through them. What could this possibly be now? _

_ They went out onto the porch, down into the rain and the muddy street. Everyone else in the town was coming out too, as if drawn to the sound of the bell like sailors prepared to throw themselves overboard to swim with the singing creatures in the water below. No one seemed to know what was going on, their whispers all mixing together until even the quiet of their voices was like a roar, all huddled together in against the cold rain.  _

_ In the crowd, he took the other’s hand, squeezed it. “What’s going on?” He whispered to him. He could only shake his head. But something was churning in his stomach, burning in the back of his throat. Something was wrong.  _

_ They followed the crowd, all milling and pushing against one another until they came to the square, and over the heads of the others, he could see some two posts set in the mud, tall and overwhelming. Strange, he thought.  _

_ Everyone stopped and stood awkwardly around the posts, waiting to see what would happen, and if he could still hear through their ribs and chests and lungs, he would hear a hundred rapid heartbeats. The long tall building they used as a town hall sat behind the poles, the dead center of the town. After what could only have been years, the double doors leading in opened, and they were led out. _

_ It was as if all of the sound, every whisper or whirl of wind, the birds roosting in the trees had all gone. All that remained was a high-pitched whine as all of the blood in his body rushed to his stomach, cold and terrible.  _

_ They brought Carol out first, her once blonde hair muddled with dirt and dried blood. Her face was smeared with dust and soot, more blood. Gods help us, he thought, and the man with James’ face reached out, hooked one of his fingers in his own. Her eyes, he could see, even from where he stood in the crowd, were glazed over, far-off. She looked like a fox caught in the snares of hungry hounds, their snouts foaming and rabid. She looked everywhere and yet at nothing at all, as though everything in her mind had been shut off. _

_ It was dark. _

_ Maria, somehow, was worse. They had shorn her beautiful hair in jagged, uneven rows, and her face was swollen and nearly unrecognizable, blackish blue bruises around both of her eyes. For a brief moment, his heart calling out for Maria, for Carol, unholy and desperate, to ease their pain, save her, save her,  _ save them_ – he was struck with the insane cruelty of humans. If they could do this, hurt these women with impunity…were they humans, or devils whole?_

_ They didn’t waste time in tying Maria and Carol’s hands behind them on the posts, not caring when Carol cried out, a heavy cracking sound ringing out as her arm was bent too far back. Tears streamed down her face, and he had to swallow a knot the size of a fist in his throat. This was too much, too cruel.  _

_ What were they planning to do? _

_ Jon Roberts came to stand in front of the posts, the crumpled bodies of the two women. His face was set hard, nearly plum-colored as he paced, another trapped animal. They watched, he and his other, waited. _

_ “Brothers!” He finally said, his voice completely venomous. “Sisters! My friends.” He paused, looked over the crowd. _

_ Suddenly he was very nervous and pulled away from his other, sure that Roberts would see them, would  _ know_ who they were. What they were._

_ Roberts jabbed an accusing finger at the women, his mouth a thin, grisly line. “These women, these…harlots! Have been accused of being the Devil’s playthings. Witches!” _

_ There was a hiss from the crowd, pure hatred rolling off their tongues and out onto the ground, crawling along until it filled the lungs and pores like smog, choking and clawing.  _

_ Roberts was nodding along, as if vilified by their anger. “We have been hag-ridden for too long, living afflicted. Our crops, failing! Our children, sick! And it is all because of these two!” He pointed again at Maria and Carol, who were panting, looking at one another, as if pleading with one another, apologizing, trying to comfort one another, and he could feel all of their pain and fear, everything they needed to say but couldn’t, passing unspoken between the two of them, because it was everything he would say. He should be up there; he should be in their place. He had to save them,  _ had to. 

_ “Well, no more!” Roberts said, and he gestured to one of the men standing off to the side. The man came up behind him, and he himself could see that he was holding a large unassuming jug. But there was something…terrible about it.  _

_ Panic struck.  _

_ The jug made an awful sloshing sound as it moved, and then, as Roberts spoke, the other man was dumping its contents over Carol’s head, and she was choking, and then she was screaming, the sounds coming out of her mouth unearthly, making whatever Roberts was spewing nearly inaudible, something haunting from another time and place. It was one he recognized, a cry for help. She was calling out to Maria, to him and his other. And he could smell the kerosene as it doused her clothes, and people were covering their ears to block the sound that Carol was making, and then the man with the jug was moving onto Maria, pouring the remainder of it on her as well, splashing it into her mouth and eyes and she was screaming as well, we’re caught, we’re caught! God help us, we’re caught! _

_ And then, he saw it all fully. The drenched clothes. The nest of kindling and straw beneath their feet. The carefully held aloft torches. It was all coming together. And his voice was catching in his throat but the man with James’ face was already turning to him, “My god they’re going to burn them!” and he was panicking, heart fluttering in his chest, caught, caught! And he made a move to push forward, but the people in front of him were screaming and crying out in return and he reached out, reached for nothing in particular and Maria and Carol were trying to tear themselves away from their final resting places, get to one another, save one another, and he and the other were pushing, were trying, but the whole crowd was moving now, shouting and jabbering as Roberts jerked a set of torches from a man on his left and another on his right, his mouth moving but no words coming out, turned, and tossed the torches onto the soaking pyres, and they were alight. _

_ If there was room for the screaming to get worse, it did. What erupted from Maria and Carol as they went up in licking curling golden flames could not have been human or even animal, only unnamable creature that they were. People were cowering and covering their ears, screaming as well, turning away, but not their eyes, not pulling their eyes from the horror unfolding in front of them, and he and the other stood above them all, unable to move, stuck in their footholds in nothing short of terror. They couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything, only found themselves more horrified and frightened than they had ever been, Roberts’ silhouette stood in front of the fire like some nightmare incarnate. He felt sick, bile rising into the back of his throat and he tried to stifle it, felt the other’s hand in his own, felt the electricity jolt through his skin, and he felt everything that the other could have possibly felt in that moment, watching their friends burn alive.  _

_ The sound of their bodies, like fast wicks on a dangerous candle, crackling and spitting under the immense heat was something unnatural, not even akin to the sound of wildfire ripping through trees, hares and deer and flocks of starlings fleeing certain death – no it could not be like that. It could only be described as worse. They had nearly been erased, nothing more than black spots in a halo of gold and red, but he knew that their skin was peeling and ripping from the bone, marrow boiling inside of them, every nerve ending firing double-time and then firing into nothing at all. _

_ And the smell. It made him turn and indeed, he threw up, all of the bile and fear finally expelling itself from his body onto the back of someone’s coat, but it didn’t matter, the people were starting to run as well. There was something not right about this act. Murder.  _

_ Everything was swirling up around him, the sounds and smells and sights beginning to blend together until they were all white rapid waters, and he realized his other had let go of his hand, and he turned to look for him, searching the panicked moving people as they ran away, fled from the execution of these two women, for nothing more than fear and rumor, but he could not see him, could not see that familiar wild hair and stark smoke eyes, they were gone, gone and he opened his mouth to call out, to find him, mouth coming together, forming the name, giving name to this man with James’ face, calling out, calling out – “B –” _

_ _

Steve awoke with a start, panting, eyes focusing hard on the ceiling fan, sweet salvation. 

He was awake. Thank god he was awake. The remnants of the nightmare played in front of his eyes like some terrible movie reel and he rubbed at them with his fingertips. When he pulled them away, he found them wet. He had been crying.

He was drenched in sweat, the thin white t-shirt he had thrown on before bed last night stuck to his body like cellophane, and he tried to swallow. His throat was raw, as if he’d been screaming in the night. 

It took him another moment to catch his breath, blink himself a little more awake. It was still dark out, but the sky was lighting up just enough that he could see streaks of purple and pink in the clouds. Sunrise was on its way. 

He threw his arm over his forehead, shaking his head, still panting. What the hell was that dream? Who were those people? Why was James there yet again? He had to get up, do something, anything to get the awful image of those women… No, he didn’t want to think about it.

Sweatpants he had thrown on the floor in a heap were pulled on, the bedroom light flipped on quickly, nearly snapping the switch in his hurry, as if he was afraid that all of the shadows in the corner of the room would come alive and he would see each of those terrified faces pleading with him, burned and peeling, asking him why he didn’t save them. He had to do something to distract himself.

The kitchen and living room light went on just as quickly, and he stood in the kitchen, leaning on the counter on his elbows, staring at the coffee maker as it began to sizzle and hiss and eventually, drip into the pot. He could feel himself spacing out, watching the coffee drip so casually, as if he hadn’t just dreamt about the worst thing that could possibly happen to someone. 

“Christ,” he said aloud, and his own voice made him jump a little. What a messed up dream. Where could that have possibly come from? And there was something else about it…it seemed so real. Like perhaps he had been there…

No, that was impossible. When were the Salem Witch Trials? The 1600s? 1700s? No, no way. He poured himself a cup of coffee, barely looking as he poured, instead staring at a spot on the side of the built-in pantry cabinet. But what if?

He turned to the living room, relieved to see everything in its place. Ugly couch, messy coffee table, small balsa wood desk turned drawing table, all still there. Knit blanket thrown over the side of the couch where he had cuddled up last night to read the paper, mug that surely had a thin layer of chamomile tea on the bottom. He’d meant to rinse it out and put it in the sink last night had got so incredibly tired that he’d plodded off to bed without anything more than a swig of mouthwash. 

His pencils were scattered across the surface of the desk and he went over to it. Maybe if he could just draw something, he’d feel a little better. It’d been a minute since he’d really put pencil to paper. Perhaps it was artist block. Call it lack of a muse, perhaps. 

He took a sip of the coffee, heavy and bitter, smacked his lips together. The pencils and blank papers watched him accusingly – _you didn’t save them, you didn’t save them, you didn’t save the—_

Steve sighed, set the coffee down on the desk and sat down, picking up a pencil and twirling it in his fingers. The city outside the apartment was quiet, even for New York, an occasional siren, car alarm, a dog barking a few blocks away. Downstairs in the apartment building, someone was watching Family Guy reruns. Peter and May were sleeping soundly in their own apartment. 

But the dream still sat on the foreground of his memory, wanting to be poked and prodded and looked at, examined. What was there to examine? It was just some terrible dream, brought on by all of the excitement of the last week and a half. The bank robbery, saving Natasha, meeting James…

There was something about James, something that made his stomach roll and curl, and he felt nearly lightheaded when he thought of him, dizzy even. Was he getting…butterflies?

He put his head in his hands. Jesus Christ, butterflies? What was he thinking? Why was this happening? Maybe he should tell Natasha he would rather meet at the library instead of the house the next time they hashed things out, searched for proof of his past. Or maybe he should just call it quits on trying to figure himself out. Perhaps there was stuff hidden there he didn’t want to see. Didn’t need to see. 

But…he wanted to see James again. There was no denying it. He _wanted _to see him, be around him. It made him feel like a schoolkid – had he ever been a _kid? _– with a stupid little crush. Jesus, he’d met him only one time. 

Did he have a crush?’

No, no, there was no way. He just enjoyed his face, the way his jawline cut quick against his throat, the thin layer of scruff he’d had growing when he met him, the way his smoke and sea eyes glinted at him whenever he cast a look his way, his small laugh that sounded like he was holding back a bigger, heartier laugh. He’d found men attractive before, women too, but for some reason this felt different. Fuller. Something about him…it was so familiar. He had to have met him in passing before, why else would he be showing up in his dreams? That was something he’d read once, that the brain couldn’t create people without assistance, so it used people you’d seen in life, however briefly, to cast the characters in your dreams. 

That didn’t seem right. Maybe he’d met one of James’ family members throughout the years. Maybe he had a twin, or a cousin that looked more like a brother. Maybe he’d met his father before. It was just too strange. 

What was he doing? He hadn’t had many friends over the years, but he had seen enough to know that it was 101 not to get feelings for your friends’ significant others. He had self-control; he could keep himself from making stupid decisions. Besides, James was probably straight as an arrow. Natasha was a beautiful woman; they looked great together. 

He tapped the pencil against the desk, rubbed the side of his thumb against the blank piece of paper. The faces of the women – had they been calling themselves Carmen and Martina? Or something else? – swam in front of his eyes again. Like with James, he felt close to them. Another friend of the family? Or a passerby on the street? 

He leaned over the paper, pencil working furiously. He knew what to draw. 

Regardless of who they were to him – he remembered now, they were called Carol and Maria – they didn’t deserve to be stuck in a memory as nothing more than two victims to circumstance. He scribbled furiously, erasing and redrawing the lines, curve of cheeks, bounce of hair, the twist of a smile. 

After maybe an hour, he pulled back from the desk and set the pencil down. 

It was them, facing one another, smiling, not a care in the world. Maria was looking at Carol, whose eyes were squinched shut, with such an adoration that it could only be love, true love. They deserved that. Even if they were just a dream.

Something hit the paper and made a soft pattering sound, then another. Steve reached up to his eyes, felt the tears there again. He was crying, without even meaning to. He sniffed, looked at the picture again. 

_They deserved so much better,_ he thought. _They deserved to live. _

He set the drawing down, hands shaking. He took a hitching breath and put his head in his hands, letting the tears fall. 

Natasha called three days later, her voice high and breathless. “Steve, what are you doing right now?”

He had just walked into his apartment, barely setting down his groceries before his phone started ringing. He opened the fridge, put in the half gallon of whole milk and sighed. “Just got done doing some shopping. You?” 

She had been texting him pretty regularly, not just about the search for his identity, but asking about his day, talking about what she was doing, updating him on some drama at work in the aftermath of the robbery. One of her coworkers apparently, that hadn’t even been at work that day, had been telling everyone that she was just, in Natasha’s text speak, ‘_Soooo traumatized, like, prolly cant come 2 work’. _Natasha had assured that she was keeping her mouth shut about actually being there, being saved by him, everything that had happened after. “I’m pretty great at keeping secrets.”

“I’m meeting with Betsy, my friend from ballet in about thirty minutes and I was wondering if you wanted to come over at maybe 5 or…6? She said she’s made quite a bit of progress, talked to her dad about whether or not there are records of every soldier that fought in the war. And she told me that she found something pretty cool and had some files to give me. What do you think?” She said and for a moment Steve thought of Peter, his spitfire speech pattern, the way he was always smiling. They could be siblings. 

He leaned against the counter, picking at the cheap plastic adhesive tile they’d used to line the top, looking at his feet. Pieces came off in his hands. “Yeah, I could come, maybe I’ll just take a bus or” – fly – “Get an Uber.” 

Natasha giggled and he knew she was thinking the same thing. “Yeah they just redid the sidewalks, so be careful.” 

He smiled, staring off across the apartment. Lately it was almost as if they could finish one another’s sentences, and perhaps every dream he had of making a friend was coming true.

“Yeah,” He said, still grinning. “I’ll see you then.” 

He took an Uber. It was quite a long drive, but it was better than taking a series of superhero jumps that ended on her front lawn, threatening to destroy all of the landscaping she had taken the time to do. He got there around 4:45 – he was always uncomfortably early – taking the time to give the silent driver a 5-star rating on the app. 

The cul-de-sac was louder today than usual, several children playing in the street, riding their bikes around, the intoxicating sound of their laughter filling his heart up. He watched them momentarily, the lackadaisical way they moved with around one another, their imaginations running wild. They were on some epic journey, one that might end in treasure, or perhaps it was just the journey that made it fun.

Natasha’s car was parked in the driveway, no sign of James’. Steve sighed, somewhat relieved. Alone time with Nat was much easier than spending time with both of them. It was James’ eyes, he thought, the way they cut into him. It was killing him that he knew him but couldn’t figure out why. He needed more time.

He rang the doorbell, putting his hands in his pockets to seem more nonchalant, even though Nat would probably open the door out of breath, pale, her hair wild around her face, anything but nonchalant. It was his lack of human interaction that made it impossible for him to know what to do with his hands. 

There was the sound of footfalls against the hardwood floor coming towards him and for a moment his heartbeat increased with anticipation and he felt himself, was it, yes it was, excitement. He was genuinely excited to see Natasha. 

The doorknob turned and the door swung inward, and Nat’s name building on his lips went right out the window, his heartbeat not faltering in the slightest. It wasn’t Natasha, it was James.

James blinked at him, surprised to see him, and Steve could feel his face making the same shape. His mouth went dry and he blinked, shaking his head to clear it. If James was here, where was she?

“Oh, hi.” He heard himself say, and he cursed himself for sounding so stupid and far away. Like he was less-than-pleased to see him.

James stood in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. “Hey, Steve, how’s it going?” He looked around as if searching for something, the words, anything to get him out of this situation. “Uh, Nat isn’t here yet.”

Suddenly the humidity was pressing down around him and he felt himself start to sweat. What was he supposed to do? Leave? No, that would be ridiculous. It was just James. But it was _James_. “That’s okay, uh…I don’t mind waiting, if that’s okay with you?” _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

James gave a small smile and stood to the side, gesturing into the house. “Okay, sure, please come in.”

Steve smiled at him, looking at the floor in horror as he went past him, down the hall and into the open kitchen. His heart was racing still, James following behind him.

The house smelled warm, and the counter was littered with food again – James must be making dinner. “Sorry, I saw her car and thought she was home.” Steve said, struggling to swallow. He was being an idiot. This wasn’t that big of a deal. But his stomach still felt swirly and heavy.

James went around the counter, picking up a towel with white cats on it and wiping his hands. He sighed, but it wasn’t an exhausted sound. “Yeah, she borrowed mine to get to the city. She’s been putting off an oil change and doesn’t want to mess up the engine too much.” 

Steve felt himself nodding. Now what? “So, how are things?” He felt strange standing so he half-leaned, half-sat down in one of the bar chairs. He knew he looked so ridiculously uncomfortable.

James looked up for a second, then back down at the countertop where he was tearing open a paper package of fish, salmon Steve thought. The counter was covered in what smelled and looked like lemon pepper and it made his mouth water. “Um, good, yeah we’ve made quite a bit of progress in finding information about Camp Haan, looking through old records of casualties and wounded who were posted up there towards the end. Only problem is there’s just so many Steves who fought for good ole’ Uncle Sam during World War 2.” He turned away, pulling a thin curved knife out of the block by the sink. 

Something struck him. “What about you?” Steve asked, trying to seem nonchalant. He needed answers.

James paused. “Me?”

“World War 2?” Steve asked, clearing his throat a little.

James blinked at him, then cocked his head, confused. “You mean did I have any family who fought?”

_ No, not really. _ “Um, yeah, any family?” 

“Not that I know of, but maybe,” He paused. “Don’t know much about my family that far back.” He went back to his work.

Steve nodded, tapped his fingers on the countertop, watching James as he fileted a piece of salmon. For a moment he was completely entranced looking at his hands, the way his knuckles bent, the veins along the back on his hands, the roughness of his skin. Even his imperfections were perfect to Steve. He favored his right hand, held his left like perhaps there was something wrong with it, like he wanted to be as gentle as possible with it. 

“Got any family in the area?” Steve continued, trying to pull away from the previous conversation. 

James made a soft sound and Steve could hear his heart beating hard in his throat. He was focusing hard on the salmon though, pulling it open little by little and then sprinkling some extra lemon pepper from a bowl in the middle. He then put in the dusting on the counter, flipped it, and rubbed the seasoning in with his hands. Steve swallowed. “No, haven’t seen my parents in a long time.” He looked up, offering a small smile. “Long story.”

Enough said. It wasn’t really any of his business anyway. James went to the stove with his fillet and put it in a cast iron skillet sat on the stove. It sizzled a little and he poured some olive oil from a green glass bottle over the top of it, making it crackle. Then he turned back to Steve. 

“So why do they call you Captain? Is that a remnant from the war?” James leaned against the counter, his fingers covering the lip with ease, little particles of pepper on his fingertips. Butterflies reigned again, and a vision of him putting one of those fingers in Steve’s mouth and – Jesus Christ. He was going to get a boner if he didn’t dial it back. The thought was excruciatingly tantalizing.

Steve felt his cheeks flush, turned away with a little smile. “Uh no, actually that’s from being here in New York. It’s the outfit, I think. People think I look like a perfect patriot wearing red, white and blue.” He blushed harder. “I should really get something new. It looks ridiculous.”

James chuckled. “No, no, don’t do that. I think you look great. The blue really makes your eyes pop.” He ran his eyes up and down his body so slowly it made Steve shiver. It almost looked like he was going to bite his lip. “You’re a snack. Is that what kids say nowadays?” He turned back to his fillet, now sizzling furiously, and Steve had to squeeze his hands together in his lap to stifle the erection that threatened to grow there, his eyes glued to James’ backside. He was wearing black joggers that clung tight to the ankle and – much to Steve’s delight and dismay – everything else.

“I’ve never really been able to keep up with kids these days. I have a –” _hard _“—difficult enough time connecting with people I assume are my age.”

James tossed a glance over his shoulder at him. “Well, that’s what I’d call you. Any girl would be lucky to have you.” He paused. “Or guy. Shouldn’t presume to know your preference.” He winked and it sent another shiver, hot and cold, up and down Steve’s spine. 

He knew his face was aflame, pink rosettes growing in his cheeks, unable to control himself. “Well, I guess both, if I can be so bold.”

James laughed, and nodded along. “Hey, we’ve all been there.”

_Oh?_

_ _ Maybe he was misreading it. Maybe James was just being polite. There was no way he could be flirting with him, right? “Natasha’s a lucky gal.” He said matter-of-factly. 

“She keeps me on my toes,” James replied. He turned back to Steve. “Sometimes it’s a lot, I’ll tell you what. She tells me she doesn’t think she can give me what I need sometimes. I don’t know why.”

A terrible thought crossed Steve’s mind, almost as if he himself wasn’t thinking it, and it made his breath catch in his throat. 

What if he just…_went for it_? What if there was something hidden there behind James’ lips that would open up the locked doors of his mind. Maybe James was lying to him. Maybe they _did_ know one another for some reason and that’s what all these dreams were, his subconscious trying to tell him the truth. 

C_heating_, he screamed at himself. _You’re going to try and make him cheat on your friend, you idiot. Do not do this! YOU’RE GOING TO RUIN YOUR FRIENDSHIP OVER A STUPID UNREALISTIC HUNCH!_

But he was standing up, smoothing his shirt down over his stomach, and it was like his legs were moving of their own volition, and inside he was screaming _STOP STOP RIGHT NOW YOU DON’T DO THIS STOP STOP STOP_ – and his mind was ignoring it, or moreso, his body was. He was shaking. 

“What is it that you need that she can’t give you?” He said, his voice low, too low, Jesus Christ what are you _doing!?_ He was barely a foot away now, looking up and down James’ body, it was as if something deep inside him that he didn’t know the name of was speaking for him, something pressing on the edges of his mind, trying to get out, reach out, take hold of that truth, whatever it was, manifest it for himself.

James turned to see him approaching, looking down at his feet and then back into Steve’s face, eyelids low. It was really as if something was dragging him closer to him, something heavy and thick in the air, and for a moment it looked as if something passed over James’ face, but, no…that couldn’t be real. Steve tried to swallow and couldn’t. “Steve, what are you –”

“I’m probably wrong,” He started, his mouth so completely dry. He could feel the heat rolling off of James’ skin, the sound and smell of the fillet burning in the skillet nearly drowning every other sense except whatever unspeakable thing was building between the two of them and he took another step forward, his heart – and James’ – a runaway train. “But there’s something about you…it’s like I know you.”

"Steve.” His voice was quiet, and Steve could feel the word reflected on his own lips, warm and sweet and familiar, why so _familiar? _

“I just want to see… I want to see something,” Steve replied, heart racing in his teeth. He could hear James’ chattering too, somewhere behind his lips.

His tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth, and he reached out to cup James’ cheek. He didn’t flinch away, just looked down at Steve’s mouth then back up to meet his eyes, lids drawn low over his own blue-grey eyes. Those eyes, from the dreams, they were burned into his memory like a dozing cigarette, a lone flicker across a trench, and Steve wet his lips, tilted his head just a little, felt himself leaning forward and then he felt James’ hands fall on his arm and his collar.

And then James was folding his hands up in a fist, a dirty smirk on his face, and he was _throwing Steve across the room. _

He felt the wall crush beneath him, wind of inconceivable speed in his ears, splinters catching his hair and the skin of his arms, plywood and plaster and insulation enveloping and spitting him back out again and for a moment he saw stars, his head swimming, James standing in the kitchen watching him, and he slid across the lawn and the cobblestone patio and through the ridiculous little birdbath and a little sound like a whimper escaped him and flowers ripped out of the dirt and he came to a stop against the fence, splintering it into his back and he felt the shards try to bite through his skin and he groaned. What the _fuck_?

It took a moment for his vision to clear, brushing dirt from his eyes and wheezing, all of the air punched from his lungs, and stars rang behind his eyes as he tried to grab something, anything, to pull himself into a sitting position, onto his hands and knees, anything, but he could see James from where he lay smashed in between the teeth of two shattered fence boards, saw James _kick _out what was left of the wall in his way, stalk over to where he was, and all Steve could think was _what the fuck, holy hell, did that just happen, what the _– and then James was leaning over him, crouching, his hands dangling between his knees, not really threatening but Steve’s mind was still in the kitchen and _what the hell _and James was speaking, slow and gentle.

“Natasha doesn’t know about this. I don’t know who you are, or where you think you know me from, or where you get off trying shit like that, but try something like that again, and we’ll have a problem.” He cocked his head, as if he was trying to assess whether Steve was hurt. He was only panting, sniffling dirt out of his nose and coughing, mind still reeling. 

James gave him one more look, patting him aggressively on the cheek, it was nearly a slap and Steve could feel the threat of the strength behind it, and then he was watching James’ backside as he stalked back in the house, giving one last delicious glance over his shoulder before he stepped over the rubble of the kitchen’s south wall and disappeared from sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the StuckyBigBang community and my artist whose art will be added to this chapter at a later date. Thank you so much guys!


	5. Chapter 5

Steve was still picking shards of fence out of his hair nearly six hours later, staring at himself in the mirror to get the last pieces. He plucked a piece of jagged concrete out of his forehead along the line of his eyebrow, wincing. Steve looked at it, turning it over. No blood, of course, just bits of skin around the edges. The stone smashed to dust between his fingers. He sighed. 

_ Christ.  _ “What was I thinking?” He whispered to himself, letting the dust fall into the sink. How could he just try and kiss James, as if he’d been throwing some sort of signal his way? There had been no _real _signal. James was with Natasha.

He was with Natasha – Natasha, who had invited him into her home, given him dinner, offered to help him uncover his past. And he repays her by trying to _kiss with her boyfriend?_ What special kind of asshole does that? 

He sighed again, shaking his head. He could barely stand to look at himself. He went to turn off the light, ripping the cord from the ceiling along with the light fixture and an inch or two of electrical wire. The light went out, sure, but would never turn back on again unless he suddenly became very good at electrician work. He let the cord fall from his hands and shuffled out of the bathroom, falling onto the bed. His head was pounding – from shame and the collision, surely. 

His cell phone started buzzing and he jumped a little at the sound. He leaned up and felt his heart drop into his stomach, his whole person going cold. 

It was Natasha. 

Oh god. She knew. Of course she did! Oh god, oh god, oh god. James _had _to have told her. He did! He told her that Steve was borderline crazy, had _assaulted _him, all truths obviously, and that he should never be allowed back at the house again. And of course he deserved it! What kind of person was he? God, what kind of monster was he? _Assaulting _his friend’s boyfriend in _their _kitchen. 

The phone was still buzzing, waiting, accusatory. He should answer now, get the screaming match over with. Get the ending of the friendship done with. Maybe it was better this way, he was better off on his own, right? He had been lonely before…he could survive being lonely again…

He picked up the phone with shaking hands, tried to swallow the knot that was building behind his tongue. Just get it over with, that’s what he had to do. He swiped the answer button and held it up to his ear. His heart was racing out of control. “H-hello?”

“Steve, you okay?” Natasha didn’t sound angry, she sounded…worried. He blinked at the phone screen, then put it back up to his ear.

“Um, I’m fine…Are you okay?” He said, slowly sitting up in bed. 

She huffed, and he could hear her rearranging something on the other end, making the phone crackle in his ear. “Well, yea, I just came home and saw the house. James said that you hiccupped or something? Threw yourself through the wall.” 

_ Oh, yeah, I threw myself through the wall, definitely wasn’t with your boyfriend’s help.  _ “Um,” Hiccupped? He didn’t tell her what really happened? What the hell? “Yea, sometimes I’ll get really bad hiccups and it can have messy consequences.” He didn’t tell her.

Natasha laughed. “Well, Jesus, apparently. As long as you’re okay, I mean, you tore out half of the wall, you must be messed up.”

Steve stood, walking out of the bedroom. “I’m okay, I’m mostly just sorry.” _Sorry for kissing your boyfriend, with no prompting or reason and he rightfully tossed me through your kitchen wall. _“I’ll pay to fix it; I know a guy.” Hell, he’d fix the wall and the lawn with his bare hands if it meant he could fix everything. Should he tell her?

No, don’t be stupid, if James didn’t tell her, why should he? Ruin their friendship? If he didn’t have to, why should he? 

And…why _didn’t_ James tell her? He’d threatened him. If he didn’t want him to come around, the best way to ensure that would be to tell Natasha the truth about everything. 

But…if he told her what happened…he would have had to tell her about…himself. He was just like Steve, wasn’t he?

“It’s no problem, thank you for destroying the birdbath it was so ugly I wish I’d had the balls to wreck it myself,” She giggled, there was a soft crunching sound, and he could see her leaning over the counter, maybe picking at sliced apples with her fingertips and nibbling on them. Maybe James was standing there watching her, or she was watching him assess the damage of the kitchen wall, picking up pieces of debris and tossing them into a pile on the patio. Maybe he was taping cellophane over the hole so that animals couldn’t get in while they slept. “So, are you going to come over tomorrow? I got a bunch of information and I don’t think it’s something that you can really talk about over the phone.” She paused and sighed. 

Steve looked out the window, where night had well fallen. There were little glints of streetlamps and the twinkling of lights in windows of the skyscrapers in the distance. He _did _want to know. “Yeah,” He said. “Yeah, I will. What time will you be home?”

She was home all day, but she told him to come around noon because then she could sleep in some. He was more nervous than he had been the day before. If James was there too, he had no idea how he was going to act. When he pulled up, he sat in the back of the Uber for a few minutes looking at the house, to the point where the driver turned awkwardly and uncomfortably in his seat and blinked at him. 

“You alright, man?” He asked, his voice quiet. Steve jumped a little, looking over at him. 

The driver gave him a quick once over, shifted uncomfortably in the seat. Steve was sure he was accessing whether or not he could take him in a fight, which of course he couldn’t, but that wasn’t the point. He just gave him a little nod and then got out, straightening his shirt. James and Nat’s cars were both in the park, and his heart went cold. What could he do? Call another Uber and leave? 

No. All he could do was go in and face the consequences. 

He walked up to the house, heart pounding in his chest. He was wringing his hands together as he came to the door, and trembling a little, knocked, quietly. Maybe they wouldn’t hear him, and he could leave. No harm, no foul. But then he could hear small footsteps hurried across the hall and then Nat was standing there smiling at him.

“’Bout time, dude, come in, come in!” 

He followed her in, unsure of what to do with his hands. They went into the kitchen, James nowhere to be seen. Thank god. The hole in the wall was still torn open, a sheet of plastic laying on the floor, taped to the wall. The debris had been swept into a little pile and there was a bag of tools off to the side. Progress was being made on fixing it up.

Natasha busied herself at the table, shuffling around a stack of papers that had been thrown out everywhere, several file folders, photos. Steve looked at it. Was that all for him?

“So, I’ve got a lot of stuff here, and I’m not sure where to start,” She said, picking up a file and looking at him. Her face was bright and flushed and it made his heart lift a little. He went over to her. “Betsy had so much more info than I thought possible, her dad has some great contacts I guess.”

She kept rattling on, but he was only sort of listening to her. There was a photo on the table, a group of men, all wearing helmets and uniforms. Maybe thirty or so guys, arms raised, or helmets held aloft. It was out of focus and taken from far away but there was…someone…back row, third from the left, that might…it might have been him. But whoever the man was, he was wearing his helmet and it looked like it had been pulled down at the last second, covering his eyes. He was smiling. But it wasn’t him. Couldn’t be. 

Something was pricking the back of his eyes and he set the photo down, sniffing.

“…and there is record of a few men from the 45th being MIA for about a week or so, but no record of them picking anyone up. So!” Natasha paused, looking up at him. He caught her eye and blinked rapidly to clear any tears that might have arisen there. “You ready?”

He thought about it a second, then nodded. “I’m ready.”

The back door opened and the two of them looked over. It was James, wiping his hand on the front of his shirt, the long sleeves rolled up, the three buttons in the neck undone just a little. Steve swallowed. 

“Hey babe,” He said, coming to Natasha and giving her a kiss, tossing Steve a look. He looked away, his cheeks burning. 

“Hey, I’m about to start, you want to hear it?” She said.

James looked quickly at Steve, then away again, sighing. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. _“Sure, you guys want anything to drink?” 

They both shook their heads and he pulled out a chair, sitting down gingerly. He was almost afraid to move too much, in case his body decided to put his mouth where it didn’t belong again. James went to the fridge anyway, pulling out a bottle of water and cracking the top off, leaned against the counter, far enough away to watch the situation. Steve wondered how much he had to pull back to ensure he didn’t rip the cap off – he had done that before himself. 

“Okay,” Natasha said, sitting herself. She put her hands gently on top of the papers and files and photos, fingers splayed out. “There was a lot of information to go through, and I don’t think she’s even scratched the surface.”

She picked up a piece of paper, a poor photocopy of some sort of form. Steve stared at it, unsure of what it could be. “There were about 16 million Americans who fought in World War II, isn’t that insane? 16 million. There were processing stations in nearly every city in every state that existed at the time, and people felt it was their duty to enlist, et cetera, whatever. Okay.” 

Steve looked out of the corner of his eye at James and was surprised to see that he was staring at him. Staring? – no, glaring, his light eyes practically burning a hole through his throat. He turned away just as quickly, swallowing a sour taste growing in the back of his throat. 

“Big problem is that there aren’t that many photos attached to enlistment forms, except the big-wigs, Generals and the like, and on top of that, about 78,589 Steves, or Stevens with a ‘v’ or even Stephens with a ‘ph’ enlisted across the States.”

Steve gasped and leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees. He put his hands under his chin, watching Nat’s face as she spoke. She was excited. She saw the look on his face and nodded. “Right? How crazy is that? 78,589 men, all with your first name. So!”

She shuffled some things around, pulling out a file and opening it, handing Steve a piece of paper that had a bunch of black lines on it, nearly impossible to read. It had a name written at the top in swirly script that said Steven, but the last name was blacked out. He chuckled and cleared his throat, handing it back to her. “Not a whole lot I can do with this one, Nat.”

She nodded, putting it back in the file. She put her hands up. “Right, well, I was also thinking – you weren’t in America when they found you. You were in Canada. Maybe you’re not even American, uh, was the tag you found, or what was left of it, round or rectangle?”

Steve thought about it. The tag was hidden in a box in a drawer under the bed, unlooked at in nearly ten years. But he remembered, the edge was more round, like it was part of an oval rather than a rectangle shape. “Rounded.”

Nat smiled. “American, then.” She shuffled through some more papers, muttering over the print. He heard James come from behind him, towards the table. He stiffened, unsure of what was going on. 

James leaned over the table on his left, picking something up. He turned, watching him. It was the picture he had picked up a moment ago. He was studying it, his eyes squinting as he looked the men in their fatigues, their silly naïve smiles. His head was cocked, like he was trying to figure something out. There were lines in his forehead, it was all worry and…fear. Fear? What was he afraid of?

“So, I asked her if she could find any records of any plane crashes reported by the US military, like if that was something that would be kept track of, and usually they were, reporting casualties and stuff, but none up in Canada, at least not as far north as you probably were and none towards the end of the war,” Natasha inhaled. “And we looked at descriptions of soldiers with the name Steve, if there were any, and there were quite a few who had blonde hair and blue eyes, which was a lot to go through, but none that were stationed North either. Bets said that unfortunately a lot of records got lost over time, and in a few cities any records they had were lost to fire or flood. Which kind of sucks.”

Steve heard a click in James’ throat, and he set the photo back down on the table, turning away from them, walking across the kitchen. He turned and watched him, but he wouldn’t turn back to face them. His heart was beating a little faster than normal in his chest. Strange. “No offense, Nat, but so far it sounds like you didn’t get that much.”

Natasha looked up at him and grinned. “You’d think that. But then she told me that there was a program during the war, well, several programs, where they basically…erased soldiers.”

He blinked at her, brow pulled down. “Erased?”

She nodded. “The programs had a few different things going on, highly classified stuff. For example, there were at least two different programs whose specific task was to infiltrate the SS and kill Hitler.”

“I clearly wasn’t a part of that,” Steve chuckled.

“Well, they clearly also weren’t successful,” Nat continued. “But there was one initiative that was fighting a separate sect inside the SS. A lot of that information is blacked out like that enlistment form. And there is no surviving information on any of the people who worked inside this initiative.”

Steve shifted in his seat. “What are you saying?”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, not necessarily that you were part of this unit fighting Nazis, though that would be pretty cool. Betsy is doing some more digging. But, we did find this.”

Natasha lifted up a stack of paperwork, pulling out a photo, burned on one side, smoke having curled the edges, and carefully handing it to him. 

He took it, and was surprised to find his hands trembling. James had taken a step or two forward and was looking over his shoulder at it. He nearly stopped breathing. 

It was, aside from the burned edges, clear as day, as if it had only been taken last week. It was him, same as he was now, standing in a pair of fatigues, someone’s arm thrown around his shoulder. He was leaning into them, a bright, helpless smile on his face. It looked like he was laughing. But it was him. Same cut of jaw, same glittering eyes, even in the shades of grey he could tell they were blue as cool waters. One of his hands was up, waving, like he was saying something to the someone taking the photo, and it was _his_ hand, of course it was. It was him. A soldier. 

“It’s you, Steve,” Natasha said. Her voice was soft. He couldn’t stop staring at the photo. James was right behind him now, and he heard him gasp a little, but he didn’t even really register it. It _was _him. Proof of his existence before the memory. Proof of something from _before._

_ _

The two of them sat around the table for another hour, talking everything over, Steve looking every few moments at the photo again. It was him, it was _him! _But who did the other arm belong to? A fellow soldier? A family member? He didn’t know. While he recognized his own face, there was no memory associated with the picture, no big revelations coming to light in looking at it. It was annoying at the very least. 

James didn’t say anything while he was in there, just watched them for a little bit, then went back outside. His shoulders were tense and his heart was beating rapidly. Maybe it was everything that had happened the day before. Steve didn’t know. He needed to apologize before he left.

Nat said Betsy was going to pull some strings with some of her father’s friends, see if she could find anything more about any of the private initiatives that took place during the war. She was also going to see if he had been in the European tour or he had ended up in the Pacific, or if he was maybe just a desk guy. Maybe he hadn’t seen any actual action, she said. And she was right. Maybe it was just a coincidence. He hadn’t looked very hard for others in the wreckage of the plane. Maybe it had been a regular transport. All questions he didn’t have the answers to now. It was exhausting having only one thing and needing the rest. By the time the sun started making its way down the other side of the horizon, he was exhausted. 

Natasha went upstairs around five to make a call and Steve saw his opportunity. He should apologize now, before she came back, get it over with. Hopefully this time he could keep his emotions under control. It might end better for their backyard.

He went out onto the patio, closing the back door carefully. James was across the yard, tossing chunks of ripped up grass and stone into a wheelbarrow. The rocks made heavy clunking sounds as they slammed against the sides, and he jumped a little. He knew James knew he was out here, he had perked up a little when the door had clicked closed, but he hadn’t turned around. Maybe he thought if he didn’t acknowledge him, he might leave. But he couldn’t, he had to say his piece. 

“James,” He started. James paused, chunks of patio in both of his hands. There was a bloom of sweat on the back of his shirt in the center where his shoulder blades pulled together, and under his arms too. It wasn’t terribly unattractive though, Steve thought and he nearly punched himself in the face for starting up with those types of thoughts again. He sighed.

“James, please, I need to say this.”

“I didn’t think you’d have the balls to show up here again,” He said, finally turning toward Steve. He tossed the trash into the wheelbarrow, dusted his hands on his pants. His long hair was pulled up out of his eyes in a bun again, but there were a few strands hanging out, sticking to the sides of his face. Sweat glistened on his temples. 

Steve swallowed, looked awkwardly at his feet, then back again. “I need to apologize. My actions were completely out of line.” He paused. “I don’t know what came over me.”

James scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure either.”

“I’m really sorry, it was awful what I did –”

“Yes, it was,” James interrupted. “And the only reason I haven’t kicked you out is because of Natasha. She likes you. And I didn’t want to be the reason she lost a friend.”

Steve took a step forward, and in response James took a quick one back, letting his hands fall to his side. He cocked his head. “But…why didn’t you tell her?”

James blinked at him. It was as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, his forehead crinkled up again, like it had been when he was looking at the photo inside. “What kind of a question is that? You know why I didn’t tell her.”

“I don’t,” Steve said, taking another step forward. “Not really. I have my assumptions. You could have easily nipped this in the bud, our friendship, the consequences of my actions, everything. But you didn’t.”

He paused, and Steve watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat. “I –” He stopped, then his face set, angry and predatory. He came very quickly across the yard, not at the speed he _could _move but the normal one – the human one. 

He took Steve very aggressively by the collar of his shirt so that their faces were within inches of each other. Steve tried to push off, but it was like his arms didn’t work, or maybe he just couldn’t make himself. He didn’t want to put his hands on James in violence. Something inside him said not to do that. Common sense, perhaps. 

But he had a smell, James, something primal and wild and dangerous, and within Steve’s own space it twisted and curled until the air between the two of them was thick and unbreathable, like they had become trapped in a bubble of their own and the humidity was rising. It was intoxicating and everything that had happened yesterday was trying to come up again and he had to turn his head away, just for a moment and take in a screaming cool breath of fresh air.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” James said, his voice quiet. He was stealing glances towards the upstairs, maybe looking for Natasha. Steve tried to look too, but with how tightly James was holding his shirt, he couldn’t turn at all. He was instead caught in the trap that was James’ eyes, stone and ice. He looked like…like he might cry.

“You come into my house and you try to destroy this life I’ve created for myself?” Created? James shook his head. “Who are you?”

Steve rested a hand carefully on James’, trying to pry his fingers loose. It didn’t work. “I’m not trying –”

“I don’t know you –”

“I know –”

“And you try and _kiss me?_ Who do you think you are?” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper and it cracked under the pressure. 

Steve stopped struggling against James’ grip, sighed sadly. What could he even say? He didn’t know. He didn’t know why he tried to kiss him, he didn’t know why he thought he knew him, he didn’t even know who he really was. He just didn’t…

“I’m sorry, I just…” He closed his eyes, letting his face fall. He could feel James’ breath against his face, heavy huffs of frustration and desperation. He knew the feeling. He understood it. The heartbeat racing in James’ chest was practically his own. He couldn’t do this. 

“Please…don’t come back here,” James pleaded. “If you want to be friends with Natasha, fine, but don’t come back here. I don’t want to see you again.”

His heart fell into the pit of his stomach and his eyes started to water. But he couldn’t say no. “Okay,” He said, and James finally released him, letting Steve back away. “I’m sorry.”

After a quick and nearly incomplete farewell to Natasha, he left, tears threatening to completely escape and spill down his face. He hadn’t even ordered an Uber. He’d just “flown” home, and after five or six bounds, rolled onto the roof of his apartment building to avoid damaging too much. There was still a crack where he’d landed.  
He stormed inside, slamming the door as carefully as he could but he could still hear it groan against the doorframe and he slid down the wood, head leaned against it. 

What had he done? He’d fucked up, fucked up so badly. Everything that he had been, the person he was and had become over time, all gone. Who was he now? Some monster. A monster who without prompting had destroyed a potential friendship with a really good guy, and surely he’d ruined it with Natasha too. He’d have to tell her why he wasn’t welcome at the house anymore. He’d have to tell her what he’d done, of course he did, of course. It was the right thing to do.

But…could he call her? None of it could be said in a text message, that was immature. It would be wiser to say everything in person, obviously, but did he have – as James put it – the balls to say it all? No, he didn’t. He didn’t want to see her face when he admitted what he had done.

_ No _ , he thought. _Don’t be a coward. You have to do it in person_. _It’s the only way to end this and move on_. It had to be done. He didn’t want it to be done, no, of course not, didn’t want to lose the one real friend he had had since Bristol had died in 1976. He didn’t want to lose Natasha now. Would he be able to live with himself if he lied to her?

He put his face in his hands, breathed deeply, his back still pressed against the door. The building was loud today and he could barely block it all out, stress was racing through his skin like a poison, dragging down all his defenses. He could hear every voice and television set and clanking cutlery; someone had burned some pasta two floors down and someone was smoking weed on the top floor. He couldn’t get it out. He wouldn’t be able to focus on what he had to say to Natasha.

Maybe if he…wrote it down first? Maybe putting pencil to paper could help him drown everything else out. Then he would know what to say. And if he really did lose his nerve, he could send it as a letter. Move away, change his name, burn the apartment building to the ground –

He got up, one hand flat against the floor and he went to the writing desk across the living room. The noise from the building was nearly impossible to move past, so loud in his ears that he wanted to cry, his head pounding from it all. He just needed to calm down, maybe that would help him block everything out. Just calm down, calm down.

He pulled out a piece of paper, one of his nice ones that felt scratchy under his fingertips, but it was a familiar feeling, one like home, if that made any sense. He then took out one of his pencils, not one of the drawing charcoals points, just a plain number two pencil, tapped the eraser on the page. What did he want to say?

_ Dear Natasha…  _ Now what?

He knew what he wanted to say, what he should say. 

_ Dear Natasha, I’m writing to tell you that I think it would be better if we no longer saw each other or spent time together. Unfortunately, I’ve made a fool of myself with James and think it would be better if I stayed away. There’s something about him, something that makes my insides turn and twist and my skin feels like a livewire, as though I were made of copper and he were a whole electrical storm. I tried to kiss him the other day, the day I ”hiccupped” and put a hole in your kitchen wall, because something deep inside me, something primal and far beyond even myself or earth or life or space or creature unnamed told me I should. Told me I had to. Because I know him, Natasha, I know him from sometime before and I can’t figure it out. And he won’t tell me. It’s not my place to tell you who or what I believe he is, but I think, somehow, that he is like me. I don’t know if he really is, or if I just want him to be. But I cannot control myself around him, like a child. And you deserve a better friend. A friend who won’t think or act like he is entitled to things that no person is entitled to. I should have been a better friend. I should have just been better. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. For you and James. I hope that someday you both can forgive me.  _

That should be good, right? He pulled back from the table, sighing, his fingers cramping, and was surprised to see that he’d actually been sketching, not writing. 

It was James. Of course it was. He swallowed, picked up the paper in trembling fingers. He’d drawn him smiling, looking off into the distance, the small lettering of _Dear Natasha_ written in the top left corner. It looked like a memory, something he’d seen before. He’d drawn him with his hair down, little crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, his mouth was a bright curl against his cheeks. He looked so incredibly happy.

Steve dropped the paper, stood up quickly, knocking the little stool over. It made a soft _thunk_ sound as it hit the rug. He ran a hand through his hair, gasping, tossed the pencil on the desk. What was he doing? _What was going on?_

_ The air smelled like the sea, all salt and wash and the sun was beating down on the port with sweet springtime abandon. He was walking, heavy clunking footsteps over cobblestones, one hand resting over his stomach, the other swinging politely at his side. Someone was with him, the one with James’ face. Again. He couldn’t escape him, it seemed. Not that he wanted to. This dream-self felt safe, controlled, protected, as long as they were side by side.  _

_ There were quite a few people on the docks, all bustling about, yelling at one another, selling things, unpacking the ships. Things had changed in the last hundred years, become busier and more energetic. Things were of course, still violent and unpredictable, but they had come to see that it was only human nature. They, like animals, couldn’t help themselves. But he and the man with James’ face moved through them, unnoticed. They were here to meet a friend, someone they had met traveling through the hot deserts of the east.  _

_ He’d been wandering through the sand, his shirt pulled over his head to block the sun, but they had known immediately that he was like them. He’d been out for who knows how long, but he didn’t seem to mind, when they found him, he was smiling, nearly laughing, He told them he had to see the sunrise over the endless sand, and it had been the most spectacular thing he’d ever seen, his hazel eyes crazed and excited. They had left together, the three of them, he, the one with James’ face, and this third.  _

_ He was called Antonio and he was wild and excitable and free. He had someone else, another half, like he and the one with James’ face, but they were apart for now. They knew that it was unsafe to be together for long. And it, as he put it, gave him the chance to have some fun. They understood the being apart, its necessity and its purpose, but it was an excruciatingly lonely thing. Days and weeks, sometimes months or even years once, long apart and then together again, it made for unyielding solitude. It could be nearly impossible to satiate. But Antonio liked to explore, while his other liked to reside in one place, a place he could come home to.  _

_ They found him, Antonio, in a blacksmith’s shop, pounding away at a piece of metal, twisting and bending it until it sat at a 90-degree angle. He lifted it up and presented it to them, offering it to them to admire and examine.  _

_ “I’m inventing something, a flying device,” he said, his voice louder than it should have been. That was something about Antonio, he was always proud when he spoke, regardless of what he was speaking about. “It will cause quite a bit of trouble, I’m sure.”  _

_ “You should be careful who you show it off to,” the man with James’ face said, smiling quietly at the bits and pieces Antonio had already welded together. “They don’t like it when we move outside the mold.” _

_ He was of course referring to the Church, capital C, the people who took their devotion to God – if there was one – a little too far. People had been executed for speaking out, creating things, doing anything that might, in the Church’s eyes, be blasphemous. _

_ Antonio made a face and turned to him, pointing at the James’ copy. “Is he always like this? A defeatist?” _

_ He nodded, chuckling a little. “He just wants you to be careful, Antonio, we both do.” _

_ “I’m safe, you know I’m safe. Besides, it isn’t like Virginia is near.” Antonio sighed and cleared his throat. “That’s not true.” _

_ “Which part?” James’ copy said.  _

_ Antonio looked at him, then down at the shard of metal. He tossed it in a bucket of water, the sizzle loud as steam rolled off its hot surface. “I haven’t seen her in a while. I’m not sure where she is.” _

_ “What do you mean?” He said, taking a step forward. He had a worried tone in his voice and it made him nervous. _

_ Antonio sighed, coiling a piece of cord around his fist. “We had…a fight, you could say. I haven’t seen her in five months. I’m still strong, still impermeable, but I’m not sure how long that will last. Difficult to write to her if I don’t know where she is.”  _

_ James came forward. Something was tugging at him in his mind and the dream was careening off an edge. It was trying to tell him something. But what? It moved forward without him. _

_ “There’s something else, isn’t there?” The other man said and they both turned to Antonio. His mouth was set, his beard wild and unruly along his jaw. He looked down and away, then busied himself with stoking the fire. His back was to them, and if he and the one with James’ face hadn’t been together so long, they may have been able to hear his heart racing in his chest. _

_ He sighed again. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It seems I have angered some…people. Very powerful people.” _

_ He left the fire, sparks flying, and went to a worktable that was covered in tools, in the middle of the pile, a small notebook. They followed him, sharing with one another a worried glance.  _

_ “I may have discovered something, a mineral of sorts, one that, when applied with several other components, creates power –” Antonio began. _

_ “Power?” He repeated, blinking a few times. “What sort of power, Antonio?” _

_ Antonio raised a finger, picked up the notebook. He flipped through the pages until he came to a sketch and a mess of words in his own wild handwriting. He couldn’t read it, whether that be from the handwriting itself or the dream, he couldn’t tell. The sketch was of some sort of…sun. That was the best way to describe it, but he had scribbled around the edges of the sun with blue ink, bits of white line that made it appear as though it were glowing.  _

_ “The power of life.” Antonio finally said, his breath shaky. His dark eyes were wide with excitement and fear. _

_ “Life?” He heard himself say. “That’s dangerous, you shouldn’t –” _

_ “I know, but it’s true. Life. It creates so much power that it can sustain itself, perhaps forever. And I’ve run some…tests.” _

_ “Tests?” James’ copy said. “Antonio, what kind of tests?” _

_ Another raised finger, another page in the notebook. “I created a little machine,” There was a sketch of a little creature, one armed and made of metal, one that didn’t look like it was powered by steam or moving parts. It had the little blue sun poked in the middle of its “chest”. “And when I put the power source into it, it lit up, started moving around. And I’ve begun to communicate with it. It’s hidden in the back of the shop.” _

_ He put his hand out, rested it over Antonio’s. “Keep your voice down. What you’re saying is very dangerous.” _

_ “I know, I know, that’s what I’m telling you. But I’ve made this incredible discovery, life, without life. Life without man and woman, creation within itself. Creation outside of god.” _

_ The shop became very quiet, only the sounds from outside in the background. The three of them all looked at one another, panting a little. Life? Creation outside of god? How did he do it? Why did he do it? And who did he anger? _

_ “Antonio, what did you do?” He whispered, staring hard into those hazel eyes opposite him. _

_ Antonio looked determined, excited, and, if he was being honest with himself, a little out of control. “I may or may not, have been seen, erm, digging up a corpse.” _

_ “A corpse?” The other man said, and he ran a hand through his hair, turned away and then back, holding his hand over his mouth.  _

_ He nodded. “A man I used to work with in the area, named Victor Shade. A smart man, a little strange sometimes, but intelligent. He was the one who was with me when I found this component. He was taken by fever not three weeks ago.”  _

_ “And you dug him up?” His voice said, nervous and tight.  _

_ Antonio shrugged, a little half nod. “Yes. And I was planning on putting the component in his heart. Seeing if he would come back to life.” _

_ “You’re talking crazy, he’s been rotting for three weeks. If it did work, who’s to say how long? Or how well?” James said, and he turned to him then back to Antonio. “Not to mention the Church.” _

_ “That’s the issue, isn’t it?” Antonio replied. “The person who saw me, I think they’ve already told the appropriate authorities.” _

_ Panic. Fear. Curiosity. All of these things raced through his bloodstream, unable to stop. What had Antonio done? _

_ “Well, are you sure?” He asked, his mouth suddenly too dry. _

_ Antonio shrugged. “A man came to the shop the other day, asked for me. I lied, said I was an assistant. He was called Obadiah Stane, a sheriff of some sort. Said he had some questions, but he had a pair of irons, so I have doubts as to the contents of his inquiries.” He offered a small, tired smirk.  _

_ _

_ _

_ He pondered for a moment. What could they do? Leaving the city was the most obvious option, but how far could the Church really reach? They’d seen the extent of their power in other countries, in the past, when they burned a man alive for daring to say that this world was not the only one that existed. He, of course, knew that there was so much more to this tiny, fragile world, more than the humans could possibly ever know. _

_ “Can we help you leave the city?” The man with James’ face said quietly. He looked over at him and saw that his worry was directly reflected in his eyes. Of course it was; were they not one and the same? _

_ Antonio shook his head, setting the notebook down on the tabletop. “No, I have too much work to do. The air is right, for the experiment. I feel it in my bones, I feel good about it. If I can do this, why wouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I at least try?” _

_ He looked between him and James, his eyes pleading. He himself looked over at James’ copy, trying to read his reaction, his mind, the way he was holding himself. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and his face was…concerned. He sighed. “What good could come from it, friend?” _

_ Antonio smiled, but it was sad, ingenuine. “If I can bring someone back to life, it stands to reason that I can create whole life. Perhaps…make a child, for Virginia and I.” _

_ “What?” He gasped, resting his hands on the tabletop. “A child?” _

_ He sighed and closed his eyes. “It’s what we fought about before we separated. She didn’t always want them, children. But lately…She hates what we are. Hates that even when we’re together, we can’t truly become human. We can’t start a family.” He took a shaky breath. “And I thought perhaps, if I could do this, I could give her that one thing. Not because it would complete her, but because it could complete us. We could stay together. We would never have to part again.” _

_ “You would…become truly human.” He said, so quiet that it was barely a whisper.  _

_ Antonio nodded. “I want to do this…I need to do this.” _

_ They were quiet again, gently considering everything that had been said. A family. A real family. He had never thought of it. The two of them, he and his other, they had never had to even worry about it. A child. A family. Antonio and Virginia…with a child. He looked over and found that the other was already looking at him. He had…tears in his eyes. And he felt all of the emotions inside himself and understood.  _

_ “Yes, alright,” James’ copy said. “Can we help?” _

_ Antonio sniffled and smiled. “No, but if they come for me. Do not panic. They cannot hurt me.” _

_ _

_ They had been with him when he brought Victor back to life, a terrifying experience to witness but it had been…incredible. At first, they were sure it wouldn’t work, Victor’s body was surely too decomposed…but it did. It did work. Moments had passed where a storm was raging outside, something maelstrom and destructive, and the three of them had huddled in the back of the shop, the man with James’ face pacing, fingernail between teeth, watching Antonio’s every move, a brotherly worry across his face. He had helped Antonio as much as he possibly could, as much as anyone could, watching their inventor friend create something dangerous and unruly. _

_ He hadn’t needed or wanted much help. He knew what he was doing. Victor’s chest open, heart sad and pale, the smell, even having been with his other for so long, overwhelming, his eyes closed, unmoving beneath the lids, lungs, deflated, his skin cool to the touch. It was too much…but it was just so phenomenal.  _

_ After the device, the tiny blue sun, had been placed in his chest, a few metal pegs that Antonio had created especially for this plugged into specific places – “You don’t need to understand the semantics.” He had said. – and the sun had been activated, all they could do was wait. The three of them had stood, peering over the body, holding their breath.  _

_ At first, nothing happened. There was a blue light, that’s all it could be, that filled the heart, giving it its own glow, inflating it, and underneath the glow was a soft pink tincture, like perhaps the tissue was coming back to life. The main veins and pumps and valves that extended from the heart began to glow as well, and then, as if by some terrifying miracle, it beat. _

_ They had all three gasped and taken a step back, but just as quickly stepped back in, staring in open-mouthed wonder at what was taking place. Slowly, nearly minutes in between, the heart began to pump, one pump, then two, and another, and another, then it was pumping in time, and the blue light filled the veins, and the body itself began to glow, and then, Victor was awake. _

_ He gasped, eyes snapping open and he and his other jumped back, reaching out to one another, but not Antonio. Victor’s eyes were cloudy and milky white, but they moved, trying to see something, anything, catch onto light or shape and make sense of it. He took several more gasping breaths, a croaking sound in the back of his throat, as though he were trying to speak, and Antonio put a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. _

_ “Victor, it’s Antonio, do you remember? My friend, it’s me, I’m here,” He leaned in close to his ear, as though that might help him catch hold of life once more, as though that might bring him back fully. _

_ The body, skin and clothes rotting away on his bones, the side of his face looking like it may have been nibbled on by mice or some other animal, turned toward the sound and he felt himself recoil at the strange, jagged movements of him. It was unreal, unnatural. But completely incredible. It made more croaking sounds, the mouth, dry and crackling like paper, creaking as it moved, the jaw back and forth.  _

_ Antonio was smiling wildly, alternating between standing and sitting, as if he couldn’t decide. “You’re alive, by all the gods in heaven, you’re really alive!” He looked up at the two of them and he looked over at the other, saw they shared the same intrigued, terrified face. _

_ Victor’s mouth opened and closed, all the while those sounds clicking and groaning in his throat and then, “T-t-t-oh-knee-oh. Tohkneeoh…’Ntonio…Antonio…” _

_ The three of them gasped and he and his other moved in closer, cautious but intensely curious. There were tears in Antonio’s eyes, and he started to laugh, looking between them and Victor Shade, who was starting to blink and look around, though his eyes were still cloudy. _

_ “Incredible,” His other said and he leaned over the body, looking at the sun in the center of the chest, studying the way the heart was beating, quick and rapid, like a rabbit’s, but beating.  _

_ He was frightened, sure, but like the others, completely incredibly impressed and intrigued. This was dangerous. Defying the Church this way was too much, but… _

_ If they were gods, should they not be allowed to create life like this? Who could stop them, really? _

_ _

_ They did come for him, a fortnight later.  _

_ The three of them, he, his other, and Antonio were sleeping while Victor tinkered around the house. He never regained his sight, too far gone, eyes cloud and smoke, and Antonio had had to reattach one of his arms when the tendons and skin that had been holding it to the rest of his body finally gave way and the piece had plopped to the floor. But the tiny sun had pushed all of the other functions of his body back into place, skin pink, hearing and voice back to normal, and the parts that had been eaten away on his face and legs had scabbed up, begun to heal. He never seemed to sleep, too much energy coursing through his veins, always moving around the shop, touching things, relearning the layout of everything.  _

_ He loved to talk, and when he and Antonio got going, they were difficult to stop. He and his other spent quite a bit of time just watching them converse; Antonio explaining what had happened in the time since his death, how he brought him back to life, everyday things. Victor used his hands and a cane Antonio had bought special for him to move around the shop, He would try to build small things, wash clothes and dishes, sit at the window and feel the breeze on his face. He would watch his other watch Victor and wondered what he could be thinking. Was it Victor himself, or was it the idea that life existed outside of humanity? Whatever it was, they never got the opportunity to find out. _

_ He had been cuddled up together next to a fire, slowly dozing off into a dream state, but he hadn’t been completely out yet. His other was, and he could hear Antonio breathing softly across the room. Victor was in the front of the shop, trying his best to clear up the mess that had accumulated from Antonio’s work in his absence. The wind was blowing harder than normal outside and he almost didn’t hear the footsteps. No, marching. They were quick stomps, in sync with one another, even audible in his normal ears. He sat up on the cot he and his other had commandeered, squinting towards the sound.  _

_ Then all hell broke loose. Someone kicked the front door of the shop open, shattering it. All at once, he, the man with James’ face, and Antonio jumped up, suddenly wide awake, at the ready. He and the other couldn’t do much – they were all but human again. But Antonio prepared himself, picking up a pistol he had hidden under his bed, stood with his back to the wall next to the closed door. There was yelling, things smashing, Victor trying to placate whoever had come in. He pushed the man with James’ face behind him, saying something the dream wouldn’t allow him to hear. There was more stomping and smashing, and the door separating them from the front shuddered, and then swung open with such intensity that it slammed into the opposite wall. _

_ It was a tall man with a bald head and a large beard, face red and huffing. He regarded he and the other, decided they weren’t who he wanted when Antonio, a rash fool, pressed the barrel of the pistol to his temple. The tall man looked at him, then quickly grabbed the gun, twisting it out of Antonio’s hand and away, across the floor towards them. He couldn’t do anything but stare at it, his other’s hand on his back, also unsure of what to do. Antonio looked briefly at it, then back up at the man. His face was screwed up, and it read confusion. He hadn’t thought he could wrestle the gun away.  _

_ Other men, soldiers, police, the like, were moving about, gathering up papers and machines, one of them, he could see through the door, had taken Victor by the arm, and he yelped in pain, all of the functions of his body back to normal, it seemed.  _

_ “Antonio Starken, I, Obadiah Stane, Sheriff of the High Court, am placing you under arrest for heresy, blasphemy, and disobeying the laws of God and man.” The tall man said, taking Antonio’s arms and clasping the irons on his wrists. Antonio didn’t fight it. He was still looking between the gun and Stane, and then he looked up at the two of them, and there was real fear on his face. Fear. _

_ “Antonio –” He heard himself say, but the dream was crumbling, all of the voices and noises beginning to morph and melt, and the man with James’ face was saying something to Antonio, his voice loud and encouraging, but the words would not formulate, would not come to fruition, there was too much happening, the corners of the room were blurring, were fading away, and he was taken out of the house, and the dream had moved on. _

_ _

_ He was standing on cobblestone. The sun was beating down in his face. He had to blink into it, put his hand up to try and block it out. He was surrounded by people, the smell of sweat and seawater overwhelming him, and it took him a moment to focus, realize where he was. He was standing on cobblestone, yes, in the middle of a square, and he looked around. His other was there, his face frightened, also squinting into the sun. He looked around again, and his heart ran cold.  _

_ Ahead, in the center of the square was gallows, and on the platform stood Obadiah Stane, a man wearing a black hood, and Antonio. He stood, hands tied together in front of him, shifting back and forth on his feet. He had a small smile on his face, as though perhaps he didn’t have a care in the world. Apparently all of the fear from the other night was gone. Perhaps it had been a mistake or a fluke.  _

_ Stane was reading something out from a long piece of paper, his voice echoing over the crowd, but the words were still out of focus. He shook his head, had to strain his ears to catch what was being said.  _

_ “…impersonating a clergyman, gross misconduct with a corpse, grave robbery, and crimes against the Church. It is today that we here bare witness where you will hang by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul.” Stane finished, rolling up the paper and clearing his throat. He waited a moment, smoothing his beard against the front of his shirt.  _

_ Antonio looked to the hangman, giving him a smile. Even if he couldn’t die, he was being a little too cocky, he thought to himself. It would be painful, might actually knock him out for a time. Maybe they would have time to bury him and then he could dig himself out, move onto the next town.  _

_ The hangman took a step forward and Antonio waited, pushing his head out a little as if offering his neck up for the rope. He was roughed around and the rope was pulled over his head. He didn’t look afraid. Perhaps he should have been. _

_ Antonio searched the crowd, and after a moment, he caught their eyes. He smiled widely and opened his mouth. “I will see you soon, friends! Do not be afraid!”  _

_ He swallowed and looked over to the man with James’ face. He had a look, as if he was trying to figure something out. He felt his own face reflect the look, turned back toward the gallows. Stane was saying something again, but he wasn’t paying attention to that, he was watching Antonio. _

_ Antonio had caught sight of something in the crowd, something he hadn’t been expecting it seemed, because his face was pale and waxy looking suddenly, his mouth hung open. He was reaching for words, unable to form them. All white and…afraid. Terror. Realization. He had made a mistake.  _

_ A mistake? What kind of mistake? What was going on? He felt his heart drop, tried to follow Antonio’s line of sight, find what he was looking at. A hood was thrown over his head, and he felt himself step forward, felt the one with James’ face do the same, try to push through the crowd, the overwhelming feeling that they had to do something had to stop this, had to  _ do something_ completely taking over, and they felt themselves pushing, and something in his head was screaming, “What are you people doing? You’re going to let this happen!” _

_ Of course they were, hadn’t they always? _

_ The next few seconds felt like they spread across whole millennium. The hangman was at the lever, Antonio was struggling against the tightness of the rope against his throat, Stane was smiling as though he were ridding of the world of some great evil, but no, he wasn’t, he was only killing a man who wanted to provide his soulmate with a family, was that so wrong? And then the lever was being pulled back, the trapdoor beneath Antonio’s feet was falling out and he went too, dangling by his throat. He and the other stopped, watched, their hearts pounding in their chest and he felt the man’s hand slip inside his own, and they stood there, watching in horror as Antonio’s body twisted and jerked. One of his shoes had fallen off somehow and the foot twitched with the movement of the rest of him. _

_ Most of the crowd had turned their heads away, impressed and riotous when the act was beginning, but disgusted and frightened when it had actually been carried out. Humans were always excited about the prospect of violence, but rarely had the stomach for it in action. _

_ But there was one person. One who had not turned away. Light hair, red and shimmering in the sunlight, wisps of it fallen out of the bun she had tied it up in. She stood staring up at the gallows, watching as Antonio’s turning began to slow, the body finally giving up the fight, and then, in a very final movement, stopped altogether. He felt himself stand up fully, he and the one next to him, hands together, and they watched her.  _

_ She did not move as they came towards her, but they knew she knew they were there. She just watched Antonio’s body as it swung in the wind. They came up behind her, gently pushing past the people in various states of struck, until they were standing with him at her left, the man with James’ face on his other side. They looked at one another, then back at her. _

_ A tear was rolling down her cheek, and she was blinking back more, trying to remain stoic, even though she was clearly in pain. He watched her, trying to recognize the pain, understand it. The air was thick between the three of them. _

_ “I thought I was far enough away. I thought that if I only checked in on him occasionally, that perhaps we would be safe.” She looked at them briefly then away. “I didn’t realize my pining, my watching, had been for too long. I hadn’t even realized we were…like them again. And then when I heard about all this…” _

_ His heart moved in his chest, slowing. It was pain, her pain, reflecting back into him, into the two of them. They understood it, understood her. It was the same that they would feel if it were one of them. Regardless of the humanity of them, they would know it. It was as though a piece of them would be ripped out, and to be crushed before their very eyes. It was too much at once. _

_ “We didn’t know, he didn’t know –” _

_ “I know he didn’t. It was a mistake. It was my own desperation to see him, see that he was alright. If I had only written to him…let him know I was close, this may have never happened.” Her hands were moving under her wrap, messing with something. He couldn’t tell what. It sounded like metal. _

_ “He did it for you,” His other said, reaching out a hand and putting it on her forearm. She looked down at it then up at him. Her face was streaked with tears but she was offering him a small smile. A sad smile.  _

_ It was a goodbye. _

_ What was she doing? _

_ “I know,” She said, looking down at her hands. “I pray that you never have to understand this. That you never have to feel this pain. It is more than I can bear.” _

_ When he finally looked, it was too late. He couldn’t have stopped her.  _

_ She pulled the gun out, looked back up towards her other half, who only swayed in the wind now, unmoving, gone, and held it to her head.  _

_ In a flash bang of smoke, she collapsed against the man behind her, half of her head gone. He took a step back, the hot ripping steam of her blood against his face, mouth open in shock and terror and he felt the other’s hands on his back, gripping his shirt, and the crowd was swimming around them, not moving as one united school, but several hundred fish, screaming and running and moving against one another and the man she fell into dropped her, her blood pooling out onto the cobbles, eyes open and unseeing for the rest of eternity, and the dream was beginning to crumble again, twist and turn like Antonio’s body at the edges and he turned to look for his other and he couldn’t find him, couldn’t see him and the dream was screaming and crashing into itself like the people in the crowd, unable to see anything and he felt his mouth form the shape of his name, say it  _ SAY IT _say his name! and he couldn’t and he was pushing people out of the way, he saw the splash of dark hair, and he started shoving, screaming out for his other, for the man with James’ face, but that wasn’t right, was it, that wasn’t right, it wasn’t James, it wasn’t _him,_ he was pushing and shoving and then he saw the eyes, saw his other’s eyes, saw him pushing back to where he was as well, screaming his name, “STEVE!” and he was reaching his hands out, screaming for him and they were pushing against the fray, just trying and hoping and reaching out to touch one another again and his mouth was open and the words were hopelessly bubbling up on his tongue and he felt his lips come together to form the letter the name, they were inches apart, fingers within real total inches of each other but the crowd was working against them fully and it didn’t matter the dream was falling apart, falling into nothing collapsing into itself, blurring at the edges and then he was screaming it screaming his other’s name, forming so fully and completely and, “Bucky! Bucky! Bucky BUCKY BUCKY BUCKY BUCK – _

_ _

He awoke with such a violent start that the world barely had time to come back into focus before Steve was sat up in bed, gasping, bile rising up in the back of his throat, his head was pounding, _Bucky, Bucky, BUCKY, _on repeat like a sounding gong, and he leaned over the edge of the bed, throwing up. A million images were flashing by, pictures and sights and sounds, all on full blast, his mind swimming with it all, and he couldn’t catch his breath, a thousand thousand memories slamming into him with the force of a highspeed train he was _remembering _– there was him and Bucky, _Bucky_, swimming in the Atlantic ocean, their fingers pruney and cold, laughing as rain fell on their faces, there was _Bucky_, lying naked in the moss of some unknown glen, eyes closed to the sun, but it was him, all him, Bucky, it was _Bucky_, not James, Bucky, his eternal. He was up now, out of bed, stumbling around as though it was dark, his knee slamming into the doorjamb so hard that if he had not been blinded by everything he would have seen stars. Another wave of memories, smells of autumn, newfound spring washed over him and he was sick again, this time between the kitchen and the bedroom. And it was Bucky and him, running, like unhinged creatures at top speed, so quickly through the trees that there were no discernable shapes, Bucky and him, fucking, like two wolves under a blood red moon, the world was spinning and he lost his balance, tripping into the table, then onto the ground, Bucky’s winter snow voice hot in his ear saying his name, everything was tipping and it was Bucky, shit, Christ, his name was Bucky. He lay on the floor, everything running hot and cold, his stomach clenching and unclenching, mouth dry but also too thick, he was making too much saliva and he struggled not to vomit again. He was sweating too much, heart pounding war drums in his chest and he couldn’t catch his breath, panting nearly apoplectic on the ground. 

Memories were flooding through him like life’s blood, burning his skin, burning _everything_ and it was all Bucky, Bucky, the man with James’ face, the man in his dreams was not a copy of him, it was _Bucky, _James _was _Bucky. 

He laid on the floor, a cold sweat drawn on his brow, panting, trying to focus, blinking his eyes repeatedly, wiping his forehead over and over again, his shirt tight to his chest, his skin nearly rolling steam from how hot he was, regardless of how cold he was too. 

It was too much, and even as countless memories continued to move through him at the speed of light, he began to come down, focus on the truth at hand. 

_Bucky_. It was Bucky. His eternal, his forever, his soulmate. James was Bucky and the man who was known as James to Natasha, and maybe even to himself, was Bucky. Something had happened to them, he didn’t know what, something to make them forget it all. Maybe it was the plane crash, maybe the plane crashing had knocked something loose. But why did he crash the plane? How did he crash it? Was there something to that? And where had Bucky been these last 80 years? Did he remember? And if he did remember, why was he lying about it?

The dream lingered on the edge of his conscious as he came down, his breath beginning to slow, begging to be examined once more. Those people. What happened? They died. 

They died. Why? How? They were like he and Bucky, weren’t they? He couldn’t die…So, how did they?

But the truth of the matter was…he remembered. Bucky was his soulmate. If he couldn’t remember, he just had to show him. 

He didn’t take an Uber this time, just landed in the center of the cul-de-sac in the middle of the day, a small little crater imploding under him. He didn’t even acknowledge the people on their front lawns, giving off little sounds of surprise and confusion in the aftermath. He just stood up, brushed the front of his shirt off, and stalked toward the house. 

There was only one vehicle in the driveway, but he barely noticed it, too focused on going inside, getting some goddamn answers. If Bucky wasn’t there, he would just wait, or ask Natasha where he was. He didn’t have any idea what he would do, not really, or what he would even say, but he had to do something. Bucky had to know the truth. He had to know who he was. 

He knocked on the door, a little too hard, four little dents where his knuckles connected with the wood and he waited. Waited until he heard footsteps across the hallway, heavy footfall. It was him. He was home. 

The door opened, swung inward and there he was, his Bucky. Hair down and wild, eyes cold and swimming and it was him. His face became hard and angry, and he tried to shut the door quickly, but Steve put a hand up and stopped it, crunching the wood under his grip. “I told you not to come back here.” Bucky – _Bucky _– said.

“I know who you are.”

“Get off my porch, Steve.” He let go of the door and went back into the house. Steve followed, slamming the door behind him.

“No, you need to listen to me!” He put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, turned him to face him. They’d fought before, hopefully it didn’t end the same way those other fights had gone, whole cities had been razed in the wake of their petty arguments. Bucky came back with a heavy left hand that ricocheted through his whole body, knocking him onto the floor, and he looked up, stood just as quickly. 

“You need to listen to me –”

“No, you needed to listen to me, I fucking warned you, I _told you _not to come back here, and here you are the next day showing up in my house!” He took him by the collar and Steve grabbed his hands to keep him from throwing him again. If he tried, Steve sure as hell was going to take him out too. 

“I know who you are!” He said again, tried to keep Bucky’s eyes – it was Bucky alright those same cold intense eyes, ones he had spent a thousand, thousand years looking into under moon and starlight, and he was hit with another memory, the two of them, kissing and giggling like children on a rocky outcropping in the middle of the ocean, and he had to blink it back to focus – bring him here so they were in the same place, remember Bucky, _remember! _

_ _ “You don’t know me at all!” He let go of Steve, shoving him as he did so and the two of them were thrown back a few feet. “I know who I am! I am James Barnes, I have always been that and there isn’t anything you can do or say to change that!”

“This is not who you are, your name is _Bucky!_” Steve came back, closing the distance between the two of them. “You and I are one, we are the same flesh, the same blood. Your name is not James, it’s Bucky!” 

“What did you say? What the hell did you just say to me?” Bucky raised a fist again and instead of swinging back, Steve just took it as it went to connect with his jaw. He didn’t want to hurt him, he knew what that would do. Bucky looked at him incredulously, went to grab him with the other hand and then, before Steve could register what was happening, the two of them were flying through the kitchen wall, smashing through it together, sliding through the freshly laid sod until they hit the tree that sat smack in the middle of the backyard.

Bucky climbed on top of him and was raining punches into his face repeatedly – “You don’t know me!” Every punch was a punctuation, a word, spite and vitriol and he felt every blow, felt it through his whole person and he wondered, no he didn’t need to wonder, he knew that for every hit Bucky dealt, Bucky felt full force. 

Steve took him by the collar of his shirt, used what momentum he had and flipped Bucky over through the base of the tree, ripping through it and through the fence behind it, the motion knocking the tree over onto its side, and he rolled over onto his stomach, just in time to see Bucky getting onto his knees, wiping mud off the side of his face. He had this look, a mix of hate and anger, fuming and he began back towards Steve, using the pieces of fallen fence to push forward, launch himself toward him, but Steve was ready, planting his feet in the dirt.

When they met, he was still caught off guard by how quickly and strongly he moved, and he nearly toppled over onto his back again, instead he dug in, gripped Bucky by the shoulder. “Stop this! You have to remember!”

“There’s nothing to remember!” Bucky said and he swung his arm back again, connecting fully with his Steve’s cheek, and he saw stars briefly, felt a groan escape his chest in pain and when his eyes finally refocused he saw that Bucky was also reeling from the hit, feeling everything he was feeling. He blinked his eyes heavily, trying to figure out what was going on.

“You know me! You’ve always known me!” Steve pleaded, trying to clasp onto Bucky’s wrist, anything to keep him from swinging again, but it didn’t matter he came from the other side, panting hard.

“No I don’t!” His right fist connected and he stumbled backwards, knocking Steve onto his knees again. 

It took him a moment to catch his breath, the world trying to fade at the edges, the power of his hits knocking the air from his lungs. “Bucky,”

“Stop it!”

“You’ve known me since the beginning, you’ve known me your whole life, your whole existence!”

“No!” Bucky had finally regained his footing and he slammed into Steve again, his forehead connecting with Steve’s nose and if he hadn’t been all but invincible, it would have shattered under the hit. He had to get them away from the house or they would completely destroy it, the memory rushing through him of a cathedral in South Ireland crumbling beneath them, and he gripped him tightly and launched into the sky until they were far above the house, he would worry about landing later.

Bucky was looking at the ground, fear and panic written on his face. “Your name is Bucky, since the dawn of time it has been Bucky –”

“_Shut up!_” And even though they were falling, Bucky planted his feet into Steve’s chest and shot him in the opposite direction, into a lamp post and he groaned as the breath was really knocked out of him. In the distance a fair bit he could see Bucky falling, falling into the street, but he landed on his knees, hands planted into the ground and Steve had to untangle himself and drop down back into the road.

Bucky’s face bloomed red, and Steve stood and waited, trying to catch his breath. He was coming towards him again, stumbling a little. The fight was going out of him. What was he doing? What was this going to solve? This wasn’t going to help at all.

“I’m not going to fight you.” He said. “We are the same. You’re my other –”

And then Bucky was screaming a bloody war cry, running towards him, shoulder down right into Steve’s middle, and they were skidding across the asphalt a few hundred yards and Bucky was on top of him, gravel and glass scraping along his back where his shirt had torn from hitting the light post, and then Bucky was punching him again, screaming into his face.

“You don’t know me! My name is James Barnes!”

Steve could only lay there and take it. If he could bleed, his face would be a wash of red and black now for sure, swollen and disfigured. But instead there was only the imprint of mud and Bucky’s knuckles, connecting with such fury that any passerby would have thought he was killing him.

He pulled his fist back again, panting, and then…he paused, looking at Steve as if waiting for him to say something else. What could he say?

“Then finish it,” He swallowed, throat dry and rough. He squinted up into the sun that rested around the back of Bucky’s head like a halo, blinding him. His hair was wild, whipping around in the breeze. Another memory, plunging his hands into that hair and kissing him, _kissing Bucky_, soft and gentle and he felt tears in his eyes. _Remember Bucky, remember, please._ “You’re my other half, Bucky. You’re my eternal. _We _are _eternal_.” 

The street went dead quiet, and Bucky just sat there, one hand wrapped up in his shirt, collar ripped, the other raised in a fist still. He was breathing hard, his face pulled tight and hot and Steve could see that his eyes were glittering. Tears. There were tears in his eyes. 

“_Hey!_ What’s going on here!” Someone shouted and Steve turned to look, but Bucky just stayed staring at him. A man was coming toward them from his front porch, phone in hand and pointing. “What are you doing!” 

Bucky stood up quickly, nearly tripping backwards and Steve watched him, unsure of what he was going to do next. A tear was rolling down the side of his face and he quickly wiped it away with the palm of his hand.

“You there! What are you two doing! Sir are you alright?” The man called, coming to the edge of the road now, addressing Steve. But he was barely listening. “Hey man, what are you doing? I’ll call the police!”

Bucky looked slowly over at the man who had his phone up to his ear. Steve propped himself up on his elbow, pushing himself up into a crouching position, ready to get up and follow. They locked eyes, but everything he needed to see, needed to know was there, couldn’t be seen. Because as quickly as they looked, Bucky was running in the opposite direction, faster than anything anyone had surely ever seen, until he was barely a dot in the road, then he disappeared over a fence, and was out of sight.

Steve gingerly laid himself down on the couch, listening to the rain.

He hadn’t stayed long in the street, only long enough to calm the man down and convince him not to call the police. He hadn’t wanted to stay…in case Natasha came home or Bucky came back. 

Bucky. What kind of fool was he? What had it helped, fighting him? Nothing. He didn’t remember, he wasn’t convinced. There was nothing he could do. Either he remembered and didn’t want to, or the memories Steve had been flooded with were locked too far below and would never come back. Perhaps it was what he deserved. 

It had started raining about half an hour after he’d left – he’d walked home – such a tremendous downpour that the streets were filling up; he could hear now the small waves splashing onto the sidewalk as cars drove through. It was all he could focus on now. 

Perhaps it was time to move on. He could go anywhere he wanted. There was nothing to stop him. If he just disappeared, faded into the countryside, Natasha might forget him. She would be confused at first sure, but it was only right. The only right thing to do after everything he’d done. She deserved better…Bucky deserved better. James. He had to stop thinking of him as Bucky. It was James. It would always be James. 

A door at the end of the hall opened and closed and he could hear footsteps on the floor. Maybe it was one of his other neighbors. No, it was probably Peter. But he didn’t want to deal with Peter right now, so he hoped against hope that he would just walk right past his door. He didn’t want to have to speak to him, knowing he would probably never see him again. It would be too painful.

The footsteps stopped in front of his door and there was a smattering of light knocks. He sighed. _Go away, Peter. I can’t do this right now._ If he just sat here quietly, maybe he would think he was asleep or out and go away. 

More knocking. _No, no, no, no, no, please leave me alone._

The knocking became harder and more frantic now and he pushed himself up off the couch, prepared to be rude if it meant Peter would give him this one reprieve.

“Peter, please I’m not in the mood, I want to be left alone.” He undid the chain and swung the door open, rubbing his eyes. “Please just let me –”

But it wasn’t Peter. Standing in his doorway, hand raised to knock again, soaked from the rain, was Bucky.

It was Bucky.


End file.
